A Very Polite Invitation
by Dream Charmer
Summary: The Varia need a new illusionist, and Fran is the lucky guy who gets the ticket. Too bad he doesn't really have a choice, though.
1. Chapter 1

_Who_: the Varia

_When:_ somewhere during the future arc. Canon.

_What_: humor, action.

_WTF_: oops, bad language. I can't avoid it here.

_Summary_: The Varia need an illusionist, and Fran is the lucky guy who gets the invitation. Too bad he doesn't really have a choice.

* * *

-/-

"What the hell is this?"

Squalo glared at his boss. It wasn't even lunchtime yet, but he could already see that the day was going to the dogs and was doing it very fast indeed.

He hated it when Xanxus decided to work in the morning and – even worse – before he had a decent meal. It invariably meant that he was in an exceptionally bad mood; and when Xanxus was unhappy, he liked the feeling to spread. He also tended to start with Squalo.

"Are you deaf, trash? I'm asking you – what is this shit?" In his right hand, Xanxus was holding a sheet of paper covered with printed text. His left was occupied with a cup filled to the rim with black coffee; a clear sign that today the man's displeasure stemmed from a headache.

"It's Bel's and Levi's fucking report," Squalo replied shortly. Even from afar he recognized Belphegor's half-assed attempt at creativity. The brat had used four different scripts, including a vaguely gothic one and one that, in Squalo's opinion, looked like it had been modeled on a soppy girl's handwriting. He must have spent at least an hour just picking the scripts – a whole damn hour when he could have been doing something useful! Squalo really couldn't care less about Bel himself, but he hated wasted resources. If his royal pain-in-the-ass had so much spare energy, why not channel it into something profitable?

"They failed the fucking mission." Xanxus' voice was disturbingly flat. Squalo immediately recognized it as the proverbial calm before the storm.

"They didn't _fail_." It was painfully obvious that the boss had already chosen a scapegoat. No surprise about who it was. "They messed up at first, but they got it right in the end, okay? Look, it's all down there in the report."

Xanxus' fingers tightened, crumpling the paper mercilessly. "Are you saying I don't know how to read, fishfood? The little shits failed."

Personally, Squalo agreed. They had pulled it off, yes, but barely, and the Varia had _standards_, which didn't include showing up in the wrong place, then hopping around erratically, unable to locate the target, and running into a police patrol. If that wasn't a failure, he didn't know what was. It was a bloody disgrace, for crying out loud, especially the bit where they had to dispatch even more people to get rid of all the corpses, thanks to Bel's total inability to wrap his empty head around the idea that sometimes killing people was a wrong move. Offing policemen or any official higher-ups without a good reason to do so was probably the worst thing imaginable because it always landed them neck-deep in shit. Squalo had personally spent what was supposed to be his first free evening in two months negotiating with the cops after he had learned what had happened. He even had to fucking bribe the whole damn lot of them despite the fact that he could technically lop their heads off in a second and put them on spikes in the garden. _That_ would've been one hell of a decoration. Too bad that if you killed ten cops, a hundred more came looking for you; and the fun would eventually turn into a chore.

Sure, he had later kicked Belphegor's shitty ass to vent out, and even shoved Levi out of the kitchen window to emphasize the point – the pathetic idiot hit the ground with the most satisfying sound – but it was still very annoying. Needless to say, their trash of a boss hadn't provided any help at all, hadn't even deigned to interfere in any way, and answered to Squalo's accusations by throwing a loaded food tray at his head; not that this sort of behavior was surprising.

And Squalo could understand why the stupid mission had turned into a disaster. It was so damn obvious that any half-wit could see it. But he refused to be responsible for this crap. It wasn't even his crap anyway. _He_ hadn't fucked up any assignments yet, so why the hell was he always the one who got blamed? And by the guy who had practically snored through the whole ordeal too!

He growled under his breath and fixed Xanxus with a ferocious glare which failed to have any effect whatsoever on its victim. No living soul had ever succeeded in outglaring Xanxus.

Squalo gave up.

"Vooi, boss! It's not our fucking fault. You gotta have an illusionist for this shit, and you know it! It was always Mammon's job to locate the target, so what the hell did you expect? Get us a replacement already, and it'll work. We can't just sit here and expect the greedy asshole to come back from the dead!"

Xanxus eyed him impassively for a moment before speaking.

"Are you telling me how to run my squad now, scumbag?" He flexed the fingers of his right hand lazily, letting Belphegor's nightmarish report drop down to the floor. "You want to add something else?"

Squalo fought the urge to scream. He _knew_ he could trust his paranoid boss to take anything as a personal insult and suspect that his fucking authority was being questioned.

"I'm just saying that we need a new illusionist," he replied through gritted teeth, trying desperately to hold onto his temper which seemed to be slipping away faster than it had ever done before.

Squalo knew he had a short fuse – it was hard not to be aware of such a thing, after all – but he had never considered it a flaw. In fact, he actually took pride in the fact that he didn't mince words and always spoke his mind. The world was already teeming with filthy hypocrites even without his help. If someone deserved to be yelled at, Squalo was happy to oblige; and seeing how he had to deal with morons, perverts and psychos nearly every waking moment, he generally had a lot to say. Nine things out of ten annoyed Squalo to some degree, and he never hesitated to express his discontent. And if someone thought his voice was too loud, they could go and drown themselves in a bucket of shit, for all he cared. Loud was the only way that worked with the thick skulls of the majority of the population.

However, it took Xanxus to make him livid enough to want to bite through walls. Squalo suspected that it was a special skill. Xanxus had a lot of those.

As usually, the boss didn't disappoint.

"Shuddup. If you need an illusionist, then stop this noisy whining, and go find one. It's your job."

"Mine!"

"Yours. Got a problem with that?" Xanxus raised the coffee cup to his lips and sipped, expression clearly indicating that he, at least, had already solved all his problems and now expected other people to either follow his example or disobey and suffer the consequences.

Squalo peered at the cup and quickly evaluated the situation. There was still a lot of coffee in it, and it was very, very hot. If he got hit with this, and judging by the unpleasant gleam in Xanxus' eyes there was a good chance it might happen, the outcome would be dire. It wouldn't be enough to just wash his hair. Squalo had never thought he would one day lament the absence of the good ole tequila glasses, but at least they were relatively harmless in the health-damaging department. He wasn't naïve enough to hope Xanxus would miss either. Xanxus had had years to polish his aim into blinding brilliance and he only missed on purpose. It was quite true that practice made perfect.

Squalo bit back the howl of rage and frustration and resorted to glowering instead. _Screw this_, he thought. He'd get back at the bastard later. He'd think up some really good insults especially for that. It wasn't like he was running away _at all_. It was a strategic retreat. A clever fighter took care to choose his battles, unless he wanted to wind up pathetically dead and defeated.

"Fine! I'll fucking do it," he snarled before whirling away and marching toward the door with maybe a bit more haste than was necessary, because every step put additional distance between him and the steaming coffee cup.

He was almost out of the room, his hand on the doorknob, when Xanxus spoke again in the same matter-of-fact voice.

"Tomorrow."

Squalo stopped. Nothing that the boss saved till the very end of the conversation had ever proved to be good news. It was the special kind of nastiness Xanxus liked to use on his subordinates when he felt that they weren't entirely aware of who was at the top of the food chain. Alternatively, he would grab the victim by the back of the head and smash them face-first into the wall. Squalo knew it only too well.

He turned back reluctantly. "What the hell do you mean, tomorrow?"

"Don't think that I'll let you slack off, scumbag." Xanxus shifted slightly, then propped his feet on the table, knocking aside a yesterday's empty glass and a pile of papers. He had his heavy black boots on, and they were dirty enough to suggest that he had taken a walk in a gutter. "Tomorrow at the same time I want to hear the name of this new illusionist. If I don't, you'll damn well regret it."

"Voooi! Are you out of your fucking mind or what? How am I supposed to do it by tomorrow morning? That's a shitload of work! And I've got to train those pathetic newbies you dumped on me in case you've forgotten!"

"Zip it." Xanxus inspected his coffee cup, apparently deciding if drinking the rest of it was more important than the potential pleasure of throwing it at Squalo. Fortunately, the headache seemed to be winning because after a moment of consideration he winced slightly and chose to keep the coffee. "You're the one who bitched about not having an illusionist, so get going. I don't give a damn about how, but make sure you don't fuck up, useless trash." Slouching further down in the chair, he closed his eyes and added as if as an afterthought. "Now get the hell out. You're pissing me off."

"You bastard..." Squalo growled and stormed out, slamming the door as hard as he could, just in time to hear something shatter against it in the same place where he had stood just a second ago.

From the bottom of his heart, Squalo wished the boss' head would split from all that noise like a rotten pumpkin; and he allowed himself a satisfied smirk when he heard muffled swearing. Sadly, his good mood didn't last. It had been nice to have the last word, so to speak, but in truth he had still lost no matter how he looked at it. Xanxus might have a goddamn headache to cure, and that could be easily fixed with an aspirin if the coffee effects didn't kick in before that; but he, Squalo, had a freaking illusionist to find, and unless the perfect candidate suddenly turned up on their doorstep, begging to be hired, tomorrow there would be hell to pay.

It also occurred to him that after today's conversation Xanxus would most definitely go out of his way to gloat and pontificate upon the sorry results of this so-called search. Squalo had no doubt that the task was doomed to failure. What was he supposed to do, to pull a mist-wielding little creep out of his ass? Damn his stupid boss, what was he thinking anyway? Fucking easy for him to give orders when the only thing he was planning to do was being a bastard. Any dumbass could do that! Did he believe illusionists grew under trees like mushrooms so that you only had to show up there with a bag and pick them up or what?

"Squalo-o! What are you grumbling about, _again_?"

Squalo blinked. Lussuria's annoying sing-song voice cut through his dark musings, alerting him to the fact that he was standing two steps away from the kitchen door which was, at the moment, wide open, allowing all sorts of smells to drift out and attack the passers-by. Lussuria, dressed in something more colorful than a macaw parrot, poked his head out into the corridor. The was a wooden spoon in his hand, and something was dripping from it down onto the floor.

"Ahh! Squalo! You've talked to the boss already, haven't you?"

"I damn well have!" barked Squalo; not because he wanted to discuss it with Lussuria – there was absolutely nothing he wanted to do with Lussuria – but simply because Xanxus had annoyed the hell out of him and it felt good to be able to bitch about it to anyone who was willing to listen. Sadly, Lussuria was all the audience these days, and _that_ was infuriating as well, not to mention that ignoring the freak's mannerisms and outfits required more effort than Squalo could afford.

Levi was hopeless in this department as his fanaticism knew no bounds. If their crazy boss decided on a whim that he wanted to play soccer, Levi would personally sharpen the axe and chop off his own head to give Xanxus something to kick. Squalo did believe in loyalty, of course, but being an obsessive idiot was another story, and Levi fitted the criteria better than anyone else in the big wide world.

Belphegor was a better choice, but only marginally, because he rarely listened. The reason was the same dumb old shit – he was a prince, and princes preferred to talk. He _liked_ talking too; it was impossible to shut him up once he got started. Bel could be depended upon to have an opinion on nearly anything, especially on subjects he knew nothing about, like growing crops or writing books. Squalo himself hadn't watered a flower in his entire life, and the only writing he ever did were the mission reports; but it never occurred to him to pretend that he was an expert. Perhaps the royal punk just liked the sound of his own voice or whatever, but talking to him was a pain in the ass.

Squalo really wished they could have Mammon back, a greedy little bastard though he had been. At least Mammon had known how to shut up and never complained.

_Well_, Squalo thought sourly, _maybe that's another fucking reason to find an illusionist_. A new face in this rotten place; that couldn't hurt.

"What are you staring at, you damn fag?" he snapped at Lussuria who was sporting a smile so creepy that it would make normal people shudder and run for cover, abandoning all their belongings. "And wipe that retarded smirk off your face or I'll do it for you!"

"Ohh, you're being rude again, Squalo! How nice!"

"What's nice!" Conversations with Lussuria always put Squalo in mind of a squirrel in a wheel – no matter what you said or did, it never actually got you anywhere.

"Your good manners, of course... Would you like to be the first to taste my new recipe, by the way?"

"Recipe? What recipe?"

Lussuria pouted. "Honestly, you people are all sooo inconsiderate, so self-centered. Here I am, trying so hard, and no one even notices! You're such an ungrateful lot."

"What the hell are we supposed to notice?" Squalo asked with exasperation. He wondered if Lussuria had prepared this shitty little speech in advance. Nobody should be able to sprout so much nonsense without a detailed plan.

"It's just that it sets me thinking – who am I doing it for, you know?"

Squalo felt his left eyebrow start to twitch. "Doing _what _! Fucking spit it out right now, or I'm going to gut you!_"_

"Why, cooking this wonderful dinner, of course!" Lussuria cooed reproachfully, completely unconcerned about the death threat. "It's my new recipe! You've never eaten anything quite like it, Squalo, I swear!

Immediately, Squalo was filled with dread. He didn't trust Lussuria's cooking abilities. The faggot _did_ know his way around the kitchen, true, and his cuisine-related vocabulary included words that anyone else would take for swearing, but he liked experimenting too much. Squalo preferred to be able to name all the ingredients in whatever he was about to eat; and he didn't want his food to wink at him either. With Lussuria, there were never any guarantees. Not to mention that his sickening personality shone through and managed to ruin even the most innocent dishes. Last time Lussuria had decided to make soup, he had sliced the carrots into heart-shaped pieces; which resulted in the collective refusal to eat it from the rest of the Varia and a great deal of bitching and whining from the freak. Xanxus, who had been the last to wander into the dining room and peer into his plate, had put the stop to the conflict by grabbing Lussuria's green hair and shoving the so-called cook's head into his own creation.

Squalo sniffed suspiciously. The air smelled of... something. Spices were definitely there. Pepper. And something was being mercilessly stewed, probably meat. There was no way to tell for sure, not with Lussuria. The rest remained a mystery because Squalo's nose refused to recognize any of it.

"What's it called?"

"Oh, I'm glad you asked. I'm not sure about the name yet, but I was counting on you to–"

"No fucking way," said Squalo firmly. Lussuria's pseudo cooking could prove tricky enough when it was something vaguely familiar, but a brand-new recipe was bound to be evil incarnate. Squalo wouldn't put it past him to assume that stewed caterpillars were perfectly nutricious, healthy food.

No, no way in hell he was volunteering to be the first guinea pig to eat it. Let Levi do it, or Bel. Or even better, why not the damn boss? The bastard always wanted the best there was, and the most original; and as far as Squalo was concerned, _cuisine_ didn't get any better – or more atrocious – than the abominations Lussuria liked to cook. Xanxus could go for caterpillars, if he was so high and mighty, but he, Squalo, would stick to pizza.

"Find another clueless idiot!" he snapped at Lussuria. "I've got work to do, unlike the rest of you lazy assholes."

"Huh? Wo-ork? What could possibly be more urgent than my new recipe?"

_Your early, painful death_, Squalo wanted to say, but forced himself to swallow his irritation for once. If he didn't stop this conversation now, they would still be standing here three hours later. Lussuria had a talent for turning time and space into sticky goo.

"The boss told me to find a new illusionist," he replied curtly, turning to leave.

"Oh, so he finally decided!" Lussuria beamed. "So, who is the lucky guy? Or is it a girl? I _really_ want to know!"

"How the hell should I know!" If only he hadn't left his sword back in his room, Squalo lamented silently. If only he had had enough brains to go the long way and avoided the kitchen. If only he could afford to strangle this trash.

"If it's a girl, it will be splendid, simply splendid, we could go shopping together. You lot are just no fun at all. _Do_ choose a girl, Squalo, yes? A girl–"

"Shut the fuck up already, Lussuria! I have only heard about this shit half an hour ago! I don't even have a fucking idea where to look yet!"

They both waited until the echo of Squalo's roar died down; then Lussuria waved the spoon nonchalantly.

"Honestly, Squ! If you keep shouting like this, something bad may happen to your vocal cords. And your blood pressure? Think about it!"

"I'm perfectly fine!" Squalo snarled, aggravated beyond belief. "And I'll feel even better when I can finally cut your damn head off!"

Lussuria ignored him. "Getting so worked-up is very bad for your health," he informed, raising his eyebrows and gesturing with the spoon. Squalo issued a half-strangled growl and whipped around, determined to get the hell away from the annoying freak. "But what do you mean, you don't know where to look?" Lussuria called after him. "Shouldn't you start with Mammon's archive? I'm sure he kept tabs on every living illusionist... Squ? Are you alright, dear?"

The archive.

Squalo tuned out Lussuria's _oohs_ and _aahs_ and waited for the suggestion to sink in.

How could he have forgotten? It was so damn simple. It wasn't even that he didn't know – everyone in the Varia knew that during the long years filled with money-making, Mammon had accumulated what was probably the biggest archive where anything presumably profitable or mafia-related could be found. When he was alive, Mammon had only allowed them to use it for extra payment or whenever Xanxus ordered it – the boss' word was law even for the greedy piece of shit – but now that the author was no longer around, accessing this pool of knowledge should be easy. There should be plenty of information there, no doubt about it.

Squalo felt a little ashamed that he had needed Lussuria, of all people, to realize such an obvious thing. Without wasting any more time, he hurried down the corridor.

"But Squalo-o! Aren't you going to train our new recruits tonight?"

Squalo halted in his tracks. The bloody training. He had almost forgotten all about it. He stared straight ahead for a few moments, blank-faced and unmoving. Then a toothy, shark-like grin spread across his face. He turned back to Lussuria.

"Vo-oi! Not anymore! Now that our stupid boss has saddled me with a more important job, _you_ are in charge of the noobs!"

Ignoring Lussuria's indignant shrieks, Squalo marched away. He might not be the boss, but he could still delegate like nobody's business.

* * *

A.N.: Yes, there's no Fran in this chapter. He will show up in the second one though. This, too, was originally a half-written one-shot, but when I decided to finish it, it somehow got very long indeed. So now it's a multi-chapter. :)I had a lot of fun writing it.

I'd love me some reviewz, please!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_(in which Squalo speaks ill of the dead and Belphegor tortures a dartboard)_

-/-

Squalo cast his gaze around Mammon's old room and sneezed. Then he sneezed again, and scowled.

He considered himself an outdoors type of person and small, enclosed spaces always rubbed him the wrong way, especially those that hadn't been aired out in ages, which was clearly the case here. Four... no, five months since the Arcobaleno had died, and the place had already gathered so much dust it resembled an abandoned crypt. The air was stale and stuffy and filled with subtle, unidentifiable smells and nearly non-existent sounds that weren't really there when one tried to concentrate on them, but hovered somewhere around the edges of perception and invaded the senses. Apparently, no one even entered the room these days, including the cleaning staff.

Squalo pinched the bridge of his nose irritably and wondered just who the hell _was_ in the cleaning staff and who ran it, because he might like to have a few words with the slacker later, after the damn illusionist was found, bundled up and delivered to Xanxus. The logic dictated that it must be Lussuria – who else? – but Squalo had spent half his life in the Varia and harboured no illusions about how the things were often handled here. It could very well turn out that no one was in charge, or even that there was no such thing as the cleaning staff at all. It wouldn't even be all that surprising.

In fact, now that he actually came to think about it, the Headquarters was indeed full of random shit: hopelessly broken things, and things waiting in vain to be fixed, and out-of-date equipment, and all sorts of personal items that had long since lost their origin, and other odds and ends; and all of it was just spread across the hideout in a manner that suggested total lack of control in this area. It was nothing out of ordinary to find a lonely boot, for example, lying in the middle of the corridor in the morning. If by some miracle you recognized it, you could take it back to its brainless owner, who would most likely be drunk as a skunk and dead to the world; but the common practice was to kick it as hard as possible and watch it fly. If it accidentally hit someone, all the better. Squalo himself even remembered once stumbling across five hundred euros that he had pocketed without giving the matter a second thought. Finders keepers; and besides, the brainless idiot, whoever he was, should have taken care of his money if he hadn't wanted to be parted from it.

The only spotless place in the whole hideout was the kitchen, the reason being that Lussuria practically lived there, and he was a super neat freak. It was probably safe to assume that Lussuria's room was the same, but Squalo personally had never been inside, and wasn't planning to start visiting in the future. Clean or not clean, there were worse things out there to provoke nightmares, and Squalo was quite sure that some of them lurked – and possibly bred – on Lussuria's private territory. He had no desire to get acquainted with them.

The rest of the Headquarters, however, simply drifted from one level of filthiness to the other, like a piece of shit bobbing up and down on the waves; and no one possessed enough enthusiasm to get tangled up with the cleaning process, much less make it a regular procedure.

_Alright, you lazy assholes, I'll give you some fucking motivation,_ Squalo thought vindictively, too bitter over the fact that he was being forced to breathe concentrated dust to remember that it had been nearly a year since _he_ had last had any contact with a vacuum cleaner. Well, as soon as the current task was over and done with, he was going to make sure to put someone in charge of this stuff. Perhaps if he said it was the boss who wanted the place cleaned, Levi would volunteer? A pretty tempting idea. Squalo toyed with it for a couple of moments before discarding it. Levi would immediately run to Xanxus to seek his approval, and the boss had never been cooperative.

On the other hand, they could just do it all in one go; that would be much easier. He'd only need to round up the idiots and have them throw away all the useless crap. This way, it would take one day at most. Hey, it might actually work!

Squalo brightened up. Finally, one simple solution. He'd do it when he would find some free time; like, maybe in spring. Right now, the freaking illusionist was on the top of his priority list; and he couldn't afford to get distracted. Where was the damn archive anyway? As soon as he got his hands on it, he would be able to leave this garbage can of a room.

Fighting the urge to break into what promised to be a whole series of sneezes, Squalo ran a finger over the surface of the nearest bookshelf – one of the many that lined the walls of Mammon's room, all the way from the floor up to the ceiling, all stuffed with books to the point where it was almost impossible to actually see the shelves themselves. He looked down at his hand in disgust and quickly proceeded to wipe it clean on his pants. They were black anyway, so it wasn't like anyone could tell. Black was a practical, sensible color. Squalo liked practical.

As far as he could remember, Mammon had some sort of a secret closet here, specifically for the purpose of hiding his meticulously accumulated materials. Squalo was rather proud to say that he had only used the Arcobaleno's treasure trove once, when he was having trouble with one particularly tricky assignment. He _would_ have managed by himself perfectly fine, of course, eventually, but Xanxus had become unnecessarily impatient and threatened to ram his Flame of Wrath down Squalo's throat unless the job was wrapped up in three-days' time. Squalo had known his stupid boss since he was fourteen years old and it was true that death threats were Xanxus' default method of reaching out to people; but from time to time he actually meant exactly what he said, and that had been one of those times. Squalo was clever enough to know what was good for him; and he had taken care to master the skill of understanding the boss' chaotic mood swings very early on – those who hadn't, had all gotten a one-way ticket to the point of no return.

Belphegor always said that their graves were a pathetic sight, and it was a rare case when Squalo fully agreed with the brat.

He gave the room another disdainful look. There was no way he would find anything here with the curtains drawn. They were made out of thick, heavy, dark-purple fabric that no light could possibly hope to penetrate – another proof that Mammon used to like his privacy, not that Squalo needed a confirmation – and the result was that the room was flooded with near-darkness despite the fact that it was barely midday everywhere else.

He scowled again, then stomped toward the window and drew the curtains aside, coughing violently as they let out a cloud of dust as soon as he touched them. Squalo spat out a string of curses to rival Xanxus, and threw the window open.

Light rushed in and illuminated the room, making the degree of the abandonment painstakingly obvious. Countless motes of dust danced merrily in the air, sparkling ever so slightly in the bright sun. Squalo put his head out of the window and took several very deep breaths to clear his lungs. Then he turned back to glare at the neat rows of bookshelves. Which one?

Squalo wasn't exactly fond of riddles. It wasn't that he lacked intelligence or education – he had enough of both, even though his teachers had had one hell of time stuffing his head with tons of useless information. It was just that he preferred action. Life was all about action, after all, what was the point of hiding behind a shitty book? That crap only got in the way. If a guy with a sword came looking for you, a book wouldn't be much of a use in a fight, so it made sense to try and _be_ the guy with a sword.

It gave Squalo great satisfaction to know that he was the best guy with a sword on the market. It was _Varia quality_, dammit. It was all about winning and living to win again.

Mammon, like all the illusionists out there, used to have a completely different opinion though. Even putting aside the Arcobaleno's greatest idee fixe – the fucking money – Squalo seriously doubted that he and Mammon could ever have been on the same wave length. The difference was too bloody profound. As far as Squalo's personal understanding ran, all that trickery and the famous behind-your-back approach were just an excuse to mask the weakness and ineptitude and – the most pathetic of all – cowardice. If there was one thing Squalo despised with every fibre of his soul, it was cowardice; and the methods most illusionists used came to close to it for him to respect them. Their mumbo-jumbo could come in handy, yes, but you were still supposed to have a real fight in the end, and that was where the Mist inevitably failed.

So far, the only exception worth mentioning was Mukuro Rokudo – the creep knew where to stick his trident at least. Too bad the Vindice loved him so much that they'd bottled him up in a freaking jar. He might have turned out to be a decent opponent, Squalo lamented absent-mindedly as he inspected Mammon's old room again. Last time, the squeaky little shit had given him the needed folder himself. Today he'd just have to find the whole thing without any help.

Well. The shelves all looked exactly the same, which was a bit of a bugger; but that alone wasn't enough to discourage someone like Squalo. Besides, it was the Arcobaleno's twisted mirages and mindfucks that had really protected the place in the past, and they had all gotten dispelled the moment Mammon was killed; and what remained was nothing but an empty shell. The rest was too damn simple.

In two long strides, Squalo reached the nearest set of shelves and started to throw the books out onto the floor in the center of the room without any noticeable reverence. If Mammon could come back from the dead to witness the barbaric scene, he would probably keel over again out of sheer terror and blatant disrespect to his precious possessions. As soon as enough space was cleared, Squalo extended his right arm and rapped his fist against the wall. He frowned slightly, tilting his head to the side, listening to the sound as it echoed in the quiet room, then shrugged and moved on toward the next row of shelves, and repeated the whole thing.

The seventh time turned out to be the lucky one – Squalo wondered if there was some weird, bookish symbolism behind the number – and by the time it happened, the heap of books on the floor had already grown enough to resemble a small mountain. As Squalo knocked on the wall behind the shelves, the sound that followed had a certain flatness to it, a hollow note indicating that the wall was unnaturally thin and had some sort of cavity on the other side of it.

"Finally!" he muttered under his breath, as he peered closely at the curious wall. It looked completely uninteresting, no different from the others; no levers, no buttons, no hidden panels that might operate the mechanism that was supposedly built into it. The empty, orphaned shelves also proved to be useless, concealing nothing and giving nothing away.

Squalo straightened up and frowned, annoyed at the fact that even now, dead and useless, Mammon still continued to complicate his existence. It was really fucking annoying how some people didn't know when to give up. Squalo took a couple of steps back to re-evaluate the situation and try a different angle; but unfortunately, it didn't change anything. The whole thing looked as ordinary and unappealing as before. Squalo stared at it for a while, fuming at the unexpected obstacle. It seemed to be mocking him.

"Fucking useless crap!" Squalo aimed a kick at one of the shelves to his left and was darkly satisfied to see it crack. "Mammon, you shitty bastard, what the hell!"

Inwardly, he felt relieved that no one was around to see him standing here with a dumbfounded expression on his face, sputtering insults at the dead Arcobaleno and looking as if he were trying to hypnotize the wall into revealing its secrets. They would never let him live it down, that was for sure. They would remind him of this fiasco in a ten-years' time – assuming they all got lucky enough to live for so long, of course.

Briefly, Squalo engaged in listing all the failures of his dear co-workers that his memory could bring up. There were quite a few, thank goodness, which provided some comfort, but the fact that he was having trouble with such a mundane thing as a wall still stang. Maybe he should have read more stinking books, after all. Or at least become a fan of crossword puzzles.

The fact that his damn boss had gone and set a time limit was also aggravating. What the hell had bitten the bastard to piss him off so much that he had decided he wanted this shit done by next morning? What was the rush anyway, especially since he had known they were in need of an illusionist all along?

Sadly, Xanxus didn't take kindly to that kind of questions, or, if Squalo decided to be completely honest, to any questions at all. It would be nice if he could write the whole business off as the usual nastiness that the boss like to throw at them, but unfortunately, this behavior could have had a very good reason behind it. Squalo didn't delude himself into thinking he could predict Xanxus, but he had been hanging around long enough to understand that the appearance could be deceiving. Xanxus _looked_ like a man who solved every single problem with a shot to the head and despised anything less straightforward; but it was only part of the truth. Another part was that Xanxus liked scheming and plotting, and excelled at these things. There might be a reason for him to want the illusionist found quickly.

Or he might as well have ordered it on a whim. There was no way to know.

Squalo gritted his teeth, because regardless of what the boss had in mind, the job had to be completed, and he was still standing in the goddamn room, incinerating the wall with his glare instead of making useful progress.

_Well, if I can't figure out how to open it, I'll just have to rip off the damn shelves and smash the thing into pieces_, Squalo thought grumpily; and because he was becoming rather angry, he kicked the nearest book – _The Illustrated Guide To Labyrinths. How It All Began_ – with great force. It slid across the floor and flew into the narrow space under the bottom shelf, hitting the lowest part of the wall with a dull, echoing _thump_.

Something clicked, so quietly that at first Squalo wasn't sure the sound had been real and not a trick of his imagination or – always a possibility in a building where garbage could be left lying around until new life forms evolved inside it – a random rat scurrying away on its business. The next thing he knew was that the hateful wall was moving toward him, approaching with a frightening speed. Squalo jumped back, barely avoiding being hit on the nose with the edge of a bookshelf, and swore profusely, carelessly inhaling a critical amount of dust and starting to cough again. When he got his breath back, he saw that the whole section of the wall had swung open, revealing a short narrow passageway which ended with a door.

Squalo blinked.

"Huh?"

It was a big, no-nonsense door. One could even go as far as to say it was monumental. It was made of steel, glinting darkly in the sad excuse for the light that was coming from the outside, and four serious locks adorned its surface. It looked as if it had been designed specifically to create a foreboding feeling and chase away whatever hopeful or frivolous thoughts might be running through the head of the potential burglar. It was, Squalo decided, a very Mammon-like door.

No one would go through the pain of arranging and installing _this_, much less hiding it behind a fake wall, unless they had something very important they wanted to keep safe.

He grinned happily.

Squalo _loved_ picking locks. The whole thing would be a stroll in the park from here on.

-/-

Belphegor was bored.

He was lying on his wide four-poster bed, pillows scattered all around him, peeling an apple with one of his custom-made knives.

Half an hour ago, he had caught a couple of random underlings as they were passing by his room, and made them bring him food because he hadn't been in the mood to go and raid the kitchen himself – why should he, when servants existed for these things? – and as a result, he had ended up with a bowl of suspicious-looking soup, a salad, and a basket of apples. Well. The apples at least exceeded even Belphegor's already high expectations – big, red and incredibly sweet.

Bel had eaten the soup after some hesitation, deciding that nobody was insane enough to try and poison him. He was still having second thoughts about it though – something in it had tasted too exotic, and he wouldn''t be able to tell what it was if his life depended on it. Well, if he felt even a little stranger than usual, he'd go down to the kitchen and skewer them all until they told him who had cooked the evil concoction, so no worries. The worst that could happen was that he'd actually have to crawl out of his comfortable bed.

Pleased with his own brilliant logic, Belphegor shoved an extra pillow under his head, took a bite from the apple and considered the entertainment options available to him. There seemed to be very few. Life used to be much more fun when Mammon had been around.

Bel yawned and hurled the knife he had used to peel the apple at the dartboard hanging on the opposite wall. It hit and remained embedded there, along with the other thirty six knives he had thrown yesterday evening, when he wasn't feeling well and needed a distraction. Bel narrowed his eyes, noticing the cracks that had spread all across the surface of the dartboard, heralding its oncoming destruction. Apparently, the flimsy thing wasn't designed to hold its own against so many blades, especially if they were thrown with such force and accuracy, Bel noted smugly.

He shrugged and reached out for another knife. If that was the case, he might as well abuse it for a while longer.

He wished he had someone to pester, though.

The boss was out of question. Privately, Belphegor believed himself to be one of best things that had ever happened to the world, but Xanxus didn't give a damn about stuff like this and, sadly enough, the Flame of Wrath worked equally well on princes and commoners, so it was best not to try anything funny with him. Bel valued his life more than anything else in the whole universe and didn't like to endanger it without a reason.

Squalo, despite being explosive and always on the verge of waving his big stupid sword around , was not much of a challenge in that department: too easy to annoy. It was enough to say _boo!_ to send him into a frenzy, and while watching him rage and yell was amusing, Bel had found that it got old rather quickly. Besides, this sort of entertainment had a serious downside. Squalo was technically a superior officer, which meant that if he really took it into his head to make someone's life miserable, he had plenty of opportunities to exploit. And although Squalo didn't look it, he _could_ get creative when he put his mind to it. One of his most sadistic punishments had involved Belphegor doing _Levi_'s work for the day, and seeing how the idiot always got tasks that, from Bel's point of view, were the embodiment of boring, it had been a really bad day. Bel also regarded it as a proof that Squalo could be as much of a twisted bastard as the next man; and seeing how the next man was usually either Xanxus, or Bel himself, it might be a good idea to err on the side of caution.

Yes, it was better to leave the _Chief Commander_ alone, at least until all other resources were exhausted.

Bel chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully and flung another knife. It streaked through the air like a silver arrow and stuck into the dartboard, which squeaked pitifully. Bel frowned. What were these things made of? Sisal fibres, or something weird like this. Whatever. He could tell it was about to break. Well, they'd just have to buy him another one, that was all.

Where was he, anyway? Ah yes.

Lussuria appeared to be harmless, but Belphegor knew from experience that if he tried to pester him, it would only backfire. He could never be sure what exactly he was doing wrong, but somehow he would always end up the one who was the most annoyed and frustrated, while Lussuria would croon, and flutter his hands, and offer a Kleenex. It was like kicking a pillow or a bag of straw – no matter how hard you hit it, it would almost immediately resume its original form and shape, and it would never fight back.

Levi was the easiest target – quick-tempered like Squalo, but without any unpleasant authority over Bel – but at the moment he was on a mission in Rome and wouldn't return for a couple of days, so this wasn't a viable option either.

He could – and probably should – get up and train. He didn't feel too excited about the prospect, but training wasn't something to sniff at, because if he started skipping it, the boss would most definitely descend upon him like a ton of bricks. The Varia had a reputation which was supposed to be preserved and, if possible, taken to new heights whenever the opportunity to do so presented itself. Slacking off and, God forbid, failing an assignment wouldn't be tolerated. Xanxus had made it crystal clear, in his usual eloquent manner. Luckily, training could also be lots of fun if he chose his targets carefully. The frightened screams especially, those were the best. Perhaps he really should go...?

Bel looked at the door thoughtfully, measuring the distance between it and the bed he was currently occupying. It seemed to be stretching and elongating shamelessly before his eyes, until Bel was ready to swear on all sacred books that existed in the world that he could no longer even _see_ the door, much less reach it.

He turned away, cheering up considerably. So it was decided, he was going to take it easy today. He fumbled in the basket to see if there were more apples.

The door flew open with a loud, insolent _bang. _There were only two people in the whole Varia hideout – and quite possible everywhere else as well – who might consider barging into his private quarters in such an outrageous manner, and since Xanxus generally preferred to have his subordinates summoned to his office so he could chuck tequila glasses at them, even a person with an intellect much inferior to Belphegor's would have no problem putting two and two together.

"Vo-oi! I knew I'd find you here! Get your lazy ass out of the bed right now and come with me!"

So much for taking it easy.

"What do you want?" Bel didn't even move to get up, choosing to observe Squalo from the corner of his eye instead.

The Chief Commander looked like he had been whiling the time away on some forlorn attic. His black clothes were covered with dust, his long hair was dishevelled, and there were red spots on his usually pale face – a clear sign that Squalo had already bid farewell to what little patience he had. It rarely took him long to fly off the handle, of course, but nevertheless, Bel's curiosity was picked.

"I've got a job for you, brat! Get the fuck up, I said! Now! _Now_!"

"You can't make me do anything," Bel pointed out, although it wasn't exactly true. "I'm a prince, not an errand-boy." It never hurt to remind others about his superiority. They were all entirely too quick to forget.

Squalo, a commoner to the bone and therefore unable to comprehend such subtle matters, completely ignored the remark.

"Shut your trap and get moving! I don't have time to listen to your bitching! What the hell are you doing in bed so late in the afternoon anyway?"

"None of your business." Bel suddenly felt bored again. He had asked for entertainment, not for extra work. He waved Squalo away with royal elegance. "And I'm not doing anything for you," he added, because with some people you had to cut information into little bits and feed it to them one by one in order to get your message across.

"Voi, you little shit!" Squalo bared his teeth and stomped into the room, menace etched into every line of his face, not that it impressed Bel very much. "Get a move on or I'll cu– " he stopped abruptly, realizing that he didn't have his sword. Bel couldn't help sniggering. "– or I'll fucking strangle you!" Squalo barked furiously, apparently deciding that one death threat could be easily substituted with another. "I want the freaking lock picked so I can get my hands on the damn archive, so why the hell are you still sprawling here!"

The archive? Belphegor sat up, fully awake and ready for some action should it be required, as soon as he heard the word mentioned.

"Are you talking about _Mammon'_s secret archive?" he asked, peering into Squalo's angry grimace.

"Of course I am! Who else could be paranoid enough to hide a pile of paper as if it were a bag of gold!"

"And you actually managed to find it, Chief Commander? It must have been an accident." Belphegor refused to believe that someone as simple-minded as Squalo could have succeeded where _he_ had failed. He had tried to locate Mammon's little hiding place a hundred times and had never gotten anywhere.

"It wasn't a bloody accident!" snarled Squalo and swung a fist at Bel's head. "Get up or I'm gonna drag you all the way up to the fucking door!"

Tumbling out of the bed with as much grace as he could muster, Bel made a mental note to get back at the swordsman in the future, but let it go for now. Mammon's archive was more interesting than Squalo could ever hope to become.

"What kind of door is it?"

"A secret one behind a shitty bookcase," Squalo replied wearily, turning to leave. "Are you ready, brat? The boss wants a new illusionist and he wants all this crap done by tomorrow, got it? Brat? First Lussuria, now you. What the hell are _you_ smirking at?"

Belphegor's face split into a wide, maniacal grin. A brand-new illusionist? A new victim, what could be better? A pathetic, helpless newbie to torture, to alleviate the boredom.

"Nothing, Captain Squalo. Let's go and pick the lock. By the way, weren't you the one to boast you could open anything with just a finger...?"

* * *

A/N.: Okay, there's still no Fran. But I couldn't do anything about it - first I couldn't stop writing Squalo, then Belphegor got in the way. I'm going to be more cautious now and won't promise we'll see Fran in the next chapter; but I _do_ promise he'll appear as soon as the plot demands it.

Thank to everyone who has reviewed - please, do it to me again, yes?


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_(in which everyone is not what they seem, and knives, shoes and insults are thrown whichever way)_

-/-

Two minutes.

Two goddamn minutes – two! – that was how long it took Belphegor to pick the lock Squalo had wasted half an hour on without success. It was so insulting it made Squalo's hands itch to wring the royal brat's neck so that no one else would ever find out about this humiliation. The fact that instead of quietly fulfilling his purpose and then humbly disappearing from the horizon Bel kept pointing out just how great a hero he was and how he had selflessly sacrificed his leisure time to save _someone_'s sorry ass from being kicked by the boss didn't improve the matters either. The amount of idiotic nonsense he could squeeze into a relatively short monologue was astounding. At some point Squalo had almost begun to hope the little punk would fail, he hated the smug look on his face that much; but apparently Belphegor's lock-picking skills were indeed unrivaled.

"Here, Captain Squalo. All done. Rejoice, if you will." Bel tapped the lock lightly with a finger, like a magician ready to pull a rabbit out of a hat, then produced another one of his frilly knives, twirled it in his fingers theatrically and inserted it, blade-first, into the keyhole. The trademark crazy grin never left his face.

Squalo rewarded him with a nasty look. He wasn't going to let Belphegor's mock politeness lull him into a false sense of security. It was a cheap trick, and Squalo had been on the receiving end of it a hundred times. He could already see something disgusting, like a shitty provocation or an astonishingly creative insult, looming ahead; and he wasn't impressed by being called _Captain_ either. Squalo would bet his hard-worn title of the Second Sword Emperor on the fact that Bel didn't possess an ounce of respect for anyone except probably Xanxus, and even that was simply because doing otherwise spelled disaster. There were only two possible states of existence within a mile radius of the boss: respectful and dead; so the choice was obvious even to Bel, who was brilliant when it came to calculating angles and numbers but sucked like hell when presented with the idea of someone else's superiority.

Xanxus was the only exception to the rule, though. Somehow, the guy was _always_ a fucking exception; he practically had the word engraved on his forehead, it was that plain to see. Occasionally – when a tequila glass or some other unfriendly object hit him with too much accuracy, for example – Squalo felt life was a bit unfair, although he would rather die than talk about it for fear of appearing as if he were wallowing in misery. Squalo was always the first to proclaim that those who wasted energy on self-pity deserved to be squashed like bugs. They already had one whining kiddie in the Vongola, but enough was enough. Thankfully, there was no soppy Primo in the obscure history of the Varia, and no shitty will to inherit – there was only Xanxus who thought the weak were meat waiting to be devoured if it turned out tasty, or trodden on if the quality was too low. It was a philosophy Squalo shared and loved to spread, even if Xanxus himself was most definitely not a basket of fruit.

Scowling, he banished the image of the insufferable boss from his mind. It was bad enough to deal with the bastard in reality, but having him in your head could be considered a particularly twisted form of suicide. He focused his attention on Belphegor instead. It wasn't much of an improvement, really, but at least this time he had managed to maneuver the brat into doing the job and he hadn't even been forced to fetch his sword to do it. Wild success.

Of course, it was likely to come back and bite him in the ass very soon. Most things worked this way.

Still grinning, Belphegor turned the knife in the lock carefully, then gave it a jerk. A soft, barely audible click, much like the one that had signaled the opening of the fake wall, announced that the stubborn mechanism was finally admitting defeat. Bel extracted the knife, and a moment later it disappeared up his sleeve – or at least that was what Squalo believed he had seen. In truth, he had no idea whatsoever as to where exactly on his person Belphegor kept all those countless blades and wires, nor did he really want to know. Ignorance was bliss, at least in this particular case.

"I did your dirty job for you, Captain Squalo." Bel put on a sickeningly triumphant smile. "Aren't you grateful?"

Squalo gritted his teeth. He was so _not_ having any of this.

"Shut up, you punk! Why the hell should I be grateful! That's why we keep you around!"

"Because it's _your_ job actually. I only did it because you're such a loser you can't even pick a simple lock. Out of mercy."

"Simple, my ass!" If only he could snap the little shit's scrawny neck and get away with it. "It's as simple as nuclear physics!"

Bel smirked arrogantly. "It's a piece of cake for _me_. And so is nuclear physics. I'm a prince, after all." And he waved a hand with an air of a monarch dismissing his lowly subjects.

It pained Squalo to admit his skills left a lot to be desired, and being bested by anyone, much less by a brat who was technically his subordinate left a truly foul taste in his mouth, but there was no escaping the bitter truth. Of course, it wasn't like he was unable to open the damn thing, not really – he just lacked practice, that was all, because he had been busy with more important stuff, taking care of vital things, like perfecting his swordsmanship, for example. He was a fucking assassin, not a burglar anyway. They should all be thankful he had bothered to fit this crap into his busy schedule in the first place.

He shot Belphegor a vicious look.

"If you have a problem with this, trash, you can take it up with the boss, cause I don't have time for this shit. Run along and explain to him why you aren't feeling cooperative." Squalo produced a grin so wide and full of teeth that it put even Bel to shame. "Maybe he'll chat with your about your last mission. Maybe he'll even give you a goddamn reward for killing off those cops. He was so fucking impressed by your handiwork, he even mentioned it to me this morning. Wanna know what he said?"

Belphegor's smile froze instantly, then slid off his face completely, giving way to a sulky expression of a kid deprived of ice-cream. A displeased Xanxus wasn't something one could easily ignore.

"It wasn't my fault," he grumbled with obvious irritation. "I was just making up for what Levi did."

"_Levi_ threw knives at the cops?" Squalo sent Bel another crocodile grin. It was amazing how the brat would never accept the fact that he made mistakes like any other mortal out there. Not that Squalo himself cherished those little moments of meekness and humiliation, of course, but this was simply ridiculous.

"Whatever." Belphegor sniffed and turned away, feigning indifference. "If we had had an illusionist with us–"

"Finally you're getting it, dumbass. That's what we're here for. Hurry up and get your ass inside Mammon's fucking El Dorado."

It must have finally dawned upon Belphegor that prolonging the discussion would only bring him more discomfort. Without any further ado, he turned around and pushed the door. It made no sound as it opened into a dark windowless room half the size of the one they had just left. Thankfully, the switch was situated where a normal person could find it – on the wall near the entrance. Squalo was secretly relieved by that because he had been prepared to waste another hour searching for the damn thing. The lights were turned on, and he had to stifle a groan.

"What the hell! It's another fucking library!"

"Of course it is." Bel had already swanned into the center of the room and was now revolving slowly on the spot, scanning the place for anything that might be of interest. "What did _you_ expect to see?"

Squalo glared at the walls lined with bookshelves, at the hundreds, or maybe thousands file folders stashed on them, and found that he didn't have an answer. He only knew that it wasn't _this_. Somewhere along the way – he suspected that it was the battle with the goddamn door that had gotten him so absorbed – he had come to believe that as long as he managed to weasel his way into the archive, the rest would be a breeze. Now it was clear that more work had to be done. Also, there was the bloody dust again.

He sneezed loudly and wiped a sleeve across his face. There would be changes, he promised silently. As soon as he got back, he would appoint someone and make sure every inch here and everywhere else in the hideout was licked clean. He would personally oversee the process and if anyone dared slack off, he'd feed them to his box shark. This crap was a freaking health hazard.

He eyed the folders with disgust. Which ones were about Mist-wielders? How long would it take to go through all of them?

"Why not use a computer, for fuck's sake? Is this a Stone Age or what? What's with all the shitty paper?"

Bel looked very smug. "They didn't have paper in the Stone Age, Captain Squalo."

"Shut up, smartass! It was a figure of speech!" In truth, Squalo knew nothing at all about the Stone Age, except that obviously stuff must have been made of stone back then. He had never been interested in anything that dated further back than Roman Empire.

The little punk remained unperturbed.

"For your information, there're things you can't put into a computer. All sorts of documents and personal letters and suchlike." His voice took on a lecturing tone, which Squalo found infuriating. "You can only scan them, but that's not the same, they're not be good for anything. You can't even blackmail anyone properly if all you've got is scans. That's why people still keep these." He gestured at the shelves. "Lawyers, and police, and the government, and everyone else."

"How the hell do _you_ know so much about this shit?" Squalo demanded angrily. He hated being lectured even more than he hated paperwork.

"Because I'm a prince, of course." Belphegor let out a hissing laugh. "My family has an archive like this one, only it's all about our ancestors."

Squalo was fascinated against his better judgement. A whole bloodline of psychos like Bel, all their crazy fuck-ups recorded for the history and stored away until kingdom come. "Are you in there as well, brat?"

"Certainly. I'm the heir to the throne, in case you've forgotten."

Squalo decided he was too fed up with Belphegor to point out that no one was likely to forget about it if he kept bringing the subject up every five minutes. Ignoring the sniggering brat, he gave the shelves another appraising look.

Black, dark gray and dark blue, as well as other, equally somber colors prevailed, and as his gaze swept over the folders, he wondered how Mammon had been able to differentiate between them. Presumably, there was a logic to the archive, an algorithm of sorts – otherwise, what would be the point? – but then again, knowing the greedy little creep, it was bound to be something so bizarre that it might only be comprehended if you hopped fifty times on one foot while holding a thousand euros in each hand and whistling _Money, That's What I Want_ through your teeth. Even with Xanxus' shadow looming on the horizon, Squalo didn't think he was desperate enough to try that.

Well, it meant there was only one thing to do. He'd been hoping to avoid it, true, but he wasn't terribly surprised to find out that a dead Mammon was no more helpful than a living one. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Heaving an irritated sigh, he raked a hand through his hair, then reached out and extracted the folder that was closest to him from the shelf. He hadn't been expecting luck so early on, and didn't feel disheartened when it turned out to be full of nothing but long columns of numbers and an occasional comment scribbled in the corner of the page. Most comments looked quite indecipherable at first glance; and Squalo had neither time nor energy to spare a second, so he shoved the folder back where it belonged.

"What are you doing?" Belphegor sounded a little puzzled.

"Same shit as you should be doing," Squalo plucked out another one and flipped it open.

"This is going to take awfully long, you know." There was a mocking tone to the brat's voice that Squalo didn't like.

He sneered at the next folder – wrong one again – not bothering to look up. "Then quit standing there like a moron and make yourself useful, asshole."

A crowded silence hung in the air, so thick you could cut it with a knife. Squalo pulled out a dirty brown folder and leafed through it, straining his ears at the same time. Something was wrong with the atmosphere: _too_ quiet, too eerie. Aha...

"Don't even think about it, shithead."

Without turning around, he flung out an arm in the direction of the door, feeling the weapon fly out of his sleeve with an almost inaudible whoosh. A dull, echoing sound that rang through the room as it got embedded in the precious wood panelling an inch away from the steel doorframe put him in mind of Mammon, for some reason. He wouldn't appreciate them ruining his valuable walls, Squalo thought absent-mindedly. Good thing he was dead then; no bitching. He'd had his share of bitching for today. He wasn't having more.

There was a short pause, which dissolved into a familiar rustling laughter.

"Trying to kill me with one of my own knives, Chief Commander? _Mean_. When did you steal it?"

"I didn't steal it, retard, I picked it up in you shitty room, they're all over the place. I knew you'd try to slither out, you always do. Fucking forget about it."

"And here I thought you were into swords."

Finally turning around, Squalo gave Belphegor a feral grin.

"I damn well am, but I can mince you up with this crappy little knife just as well, so don't you get the wrong idea. You're gonna sit here and help me with this shit, or I swear Lussuria'll have more steak to cook tonight."

"Wanna fight? I've got more of these." Bel was grinning too, in his trademark maniacal way. Several knives were out and glinting in the dim yellowish light.

There was an eager, almost pleading note in his voice which Squalo recognized instantly as the most ominous of all possible signs. It meant the little psycho was approaching the breaking point _and_ accelerating. Perhaps he had pushed him too far, after all. It'd happened quickly, but things were always unpredictable with Bel. Sometimes he behaved so normal, it was entirely too easy to forget he really _was_ insane underneath, unlike the others who were just crazy, bad-tempered and eccentric.

One way or another, it was time to wrap it up. Thankfully, he knew exactly what to say.

Squalo sneered. "Better save that for our future mindfucker, brat. You're the one who gets to work with the freak."

As if by magic, the knives disappeared. Bel looked troubled.

"Why me?"

"Isn't it fucking obvious? He's gonna take Mammon's place, so that means you. The way you fight, you need an illusionist anyway. Last mission proved that." _And we'll be damned before we let you loose again on your own_, he didn't say but thought.

Squalo was only glad he'd managed to manipulate those freakish mood swings to his advantage this time. He knew he was stronger than Belphegor – if he weren't, Bel would be the Chief Commander of the Varia, and not him – but it didn't mean he wanted a death match with the maniac. Especially not here and now.

"Alright then." Bel straightened up casually, as if nothing out of ordinary had transpired. "I'll help you look. But I'm still going to skewer you later, Captain Squalo. You'll make a fine pincushion."

"Any time you like, brat," replied Squalo dryly. "Now get to work."

-/-

M.M. looked down at her hands and saw that they were balled into fists, and she hadn't even noticed when it happened. It wasn't a gesture one might associate with a woman, at least not with the type of woman she was trying to be – not ladylike enough – but she had found she was doing it quite often these days. She knew all too well whose fault it was, too.

"Your face is all scrunched up now, you know. Not pretty at all."

_That. Nasty. Little. Good-for-nothing_. If it weren't for Mukuro... She didn't know exactly what she'd do if it wasn't Mukuro who had asked her to take in this little excuse for a human being, but she was sure she'd think of a really horrible way to get back at him for all he'd done to her quite fast. If M.M. believed in anything – which she didn't because it was obvious, at least to her, that there was nothing to believe in, for better or for worse – she'd say it was a particularly unpleasant form of divine punishment that she'd got saddled with this–

"If you keep it up, you'll get wrinkles. I've read about it in a book."

–this guy. This boy. This whatever.

This Fran.

She didn't know how old he was, or where he came from. He looked around twenty, most of the time, but M.M. would rather bet on the Vindice releasing Mukuro, which, sadly enough, was as likely as a snowfall in July, than on anything that involved Fran. Sometimes, when he would crawl out of the spare bedroom she had put him into, dressed in some ridiculous T-shirt with a duck design, and start telling jokes that no one would ever find funny even if he paid for it, he seemed younger; so that she had once or twice caught herself wondering if his parents were worried about him, or if he had them at all. But there were other times too, when he would look at her oddly and offer a comment that spoke of experience far beyond what a boy like him might possess, and she would doubt her own thinking all over again.

He was all blurry and vague, fading in and out of sight, but not like Mukuro used to do. M.M. loved Mukuro, but her love wasn't blind. She had never thought he was simply misunderstood or victimized. He was a slithery bastard with a penchant for cruelty, and, quite probably, insane as well, but she had long since accepted the fact and learned to live with it. Some women out there loved mafia dons, for example, so why was it so strange that she loved Mukuro? It didn't matter who – or what – he was.

"On the other hand, the wrinkes on your face might just match the ones on your dress, then. You'll both look ugly."

Her patience ran out. She stood up and glared down at him, trying to get a hold of her temper and not lunge at him. The desire to sink her freshly manicured nails into his apathetic face was threatening to get the better of her. She made another valiant attempt to reign it in.

There was a huge difference between Mukuro and this Fran. Mukuro's ways were twisted and tangled up, like an old spiderweb, so that it was impossible to figure out his next move, but his motives were, in fact, quite plain to see. M.M. didn't understand what people meant when they said they had no idea what he wanted or whose side he was on. Wasn't it completely obvious? Even Mukuro himself had never made a secret of that.

Fran was another story. He had come – come from where? he'd never answered that either – because he appeared to have struck some creepy sort of bargain with Mukuro, but what he personally got out of it, she couldn't even begin to guess. He'd just materialized on the blue wooden bench near her house the morning after she'd been informed by Mukuro, in her dreams, that his _apprentice_ was coming to stay for while. She had showed him to the only free room she had; and he had just taken it in his stride, without even saying _thank you_! He didn't look in a hurry to leave or do something. If he was waiting for something to happen, he never told her. He just stayed, wandered around and made her miserable. That seemed to be the only purpose.

"What the hell is up with you again, Fran! Stop picking on me!"

"I'm not picking on you." Fran gazed up into her face, unblinking. "I'm telling the truth."

"What truth?" In exasperation, she looked around for anything to fling at him to make him shut up. Unfortunately, there were only her grandmother's cups made of the thinnest, almost transparent china within an arm's reach, and she wasn't going to waste them on the annoying little thing.

"This dress makes you look fat."

With an indignant shriek, M.M. wrestled a high-heeled shoe of her left foot and hurled it at Fran who didn't even bother to dodge, simply turning a little to allow her impromptu missile to hit him in the shoulder. Judging by his look, it might as well have been a freaking pillow, despite the fact that she'd actually used all her strength.

"Oh," he said, without expression, as it dropped down to the floor. "That hurt. It really did. Especially that heel, you know, very sharp. You should take care of who you stab with it. You may even kill someone."

"That was the _point_, jerk!"

"Oh, I see." He tilted his head slightly, "But in that case, you should have aimed better and maybe screamed less. Haven't you ever heard of stealth?"

"You'll find out about that next time I want to kill you," she snapped, pouring as much contempt as she could into her voice.

"Well, good luck then," said Fran seriously. He had either failed to notice her tone, or the venom in it was helpless against the likes of him. She suspected it was the latter. "But I think I'm going to go and lie down for a bit now. I didn't get enough sleep last night because I was busy talking to Master." He went on as if he were discussing some trivial matter, like weather or prices in the grocery store across the road.

Mukuro. Her breath hitched, as all thoughts of strangling Fran flew momentarily out of her mind.

"What did he say? What did Mukuro tell you?"

"Nothing interesting, really. But he's so glad we're getting along."

And with that, he rose up and trotted out of the kitchen. M.M. hobbled a couple of steps after him, the other shoe still on, questions and insults whirling inside her head with such a speed that she suspected her brains were about to boil and evaporate. She heard the door of the guest bedroom click shut and stopped too, leaning against the comforting, cool side of the refrigerator. She kicked off the remaining shoe.

It was just no use. She couldn't insult or offend someone who refused to be offended, much less someone who didn't seem to understand the _concept_ of being offended. During all the time spent – unwillingly! – in his company, she hadn't won this elusive contest even once.

And what kind of name was Fran, anyway? It sounded like something a dog might be called, especially if its master was an especially unimaginative meathead. It had this flat finality to it, almost like a brick. Max. Rocky. Fran. At the same time, it was shapeless and formless, like a blob of slime; like the guy himself, it had no real contours. Anything could be a _fran_. Any thing. It failed to convey a meaning; and she found that alone mildly disturbing. Was it short for a real name? She had been so infuriated that she had to deal – to touch, God forbid! – something named _Fran_, of all things, that she had wasted half the night after he'd first showed up on her doorstep tossing and turning, thinking of who he might be and what his true name was. But when she confronted him about it in the morning, he just gave her an unreadable look and said:

"It's just Fran."

She really couldn't stand him. She would just dismiss the boy and multiply him by zero, as he undoubtedly deserved, had he not come from Mukuro. And he had spoken to Mukuro many times; and apparently, Mukuro held him in some regard. It rankled, but there it was. Mukuro had handpicked him, so to speak, and was even concerned enough about his fate to contact M.M. and ask her to take care of him; and she'd been so naïve she'd promised that she would. She should have known better by then.

He had never been concerned about _her_, M.M. thought bitterly. It was always about this Chrome girl, this soppy, useless little wench who spent half of her time increasing the quantity of salt water in the world, the other half, trailing after the very same people who had put Mukuro back into prison; and now there was Fran too. They were important; she wasn't, or at least not as much. She could understand why Mukuro needed Chrome, probably, although why he hadn't chosen someone with a little more backbone was beyond her. But Fran? What use could he be?

There was the sound of a door opening, and then Fran poked his head into the corridor. His hair was a mess, and his shirt, or at least as much of it as she could see, was rumpled. He actually must have had the nerve to go and take a nap.

"By the way, W.W.," he said with mild curiosity, "what are we having for dinner?"

"My name is _not_ W.W., It's M.M.! I've told you a hundred times already! And if you want a dinner, cook for yourself because I'm not lifting a finger for you."

It was all very well to help Mukuro, very noble and generous of her, she thought as she stormed into her own room, slamming the door hard enough to make the whole house shake and rattle like bucket full of iron nails. Very kind-hearted indeed. Unfortunately, there were limits to how much she could put up with, even for Mukuro's sake. She wished someone or something – at this point she would even welcome a Vindice and offer him a cup of coffee and a croissant – would turn up and save her from this torture.

She really couldn't wait.

* * *

A/N: Squalo and Belphegor got a little creepy somewhere along the way, didn't they? On the other hand, we finally get to meet Fran. Hurrah?

Thanks for all your reviews, I appreciate it very much. Leave me another one, if it's not too much to ask. :D


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_(in which Fran's doom is sealed )_

-/-

"Hey, brat! How's it going? Found anything useful yet?" Squalo, seated cross-legged on the floor, snapped shut his hundredth folder and tossed it aside.

He was getting tired; a thing that happened whenever he was forced to stay still for more than an hour, doing boring, monotonous shit. Paperwork of any kind ranked quite high on Squalo's personal black list, being if not the absolute winner, then most certainly a runner-up. He _did_ have a very decent attention span: it was impossible to go far in the world of swords if your focus slipped away when a birdie chirped in a nearby bush; and Squalo had been able to defeat Tyr in a battle that lasted a fucking eternity; but he despised wasting his time and concentration – valuable resources, both of them! – on what looked like a lost cause.

So far, his and Belphegor's collective efforts had produced a rather disappointing result: a grand total of eight illusionists had been dug out and brought forth to be examined in the flickering light of the single electric bulb hanging from the ceiling. Six were mentioned almost in passing, at least by Mammon's standards, and occupied only half a page each, with a haughty _unlikely to become a threat due to mediocre skills_ as a final judgement bestowed on them by the dead Arcobaleno. Squalo had written those off instantly. This was the Varia, and there was no room for _mediocre skills_. Mediocre people didn't survive here. Squalo personally made sure it was the case on a regular basis.

The seventh candidate seemed a little better as far as his professional qualities were concerned – two whole pages, no shit – but Mammos's summary of his character had given Squalo such a strong impression that the guy was a terrible coward that he had almost spat on the folder in disgust.

The eighth illusionist was good; there was no doubting the fact. His curriculum vitae practically screamed it. He fitted the criteria, he had the experience; he was perfect, or the next best thing.

Unfortunately, half a year earlier, he had gone missing somewhere in the rainforests of Brazil. Mammon had added it at the bottom of the last page, in his neat, small handwriting. Squalo immediately regretted having read it. It made him feel tricked and cheated, like a dog that had been given a toy rubber bone instead of a real one. Squalo didn't appreciate the feeling one bit.

He looked around for something to hit or kick to vent his spleen, and only found Belphegor.

Not perfect, but it was better than nothing, in any case.

"Well!" Squalo barked loudly, wishing the brat would give him an excuse to mop the floor with his sorry ass.

Bel seemed to have sensed the dangerous change in the air – he truly was quick on the uptake, to Squalo's great chagrin – because he refused to rise to the provocation.

"What now?" he grumbled, shuffling through the pages of a thick black folder with what _had_ to be deliberate slowness. He didn't even look up. "You're the one who told me to shut up and work. Didn't you want it done quickly?"

"The fucking archive is useless! It's a just dusty pile of old crap, dammit." Squalo eyed the bookshelves balefully. "Total waste of my time. The only idiot worth the effort went and got himself lost in a bloody forest!"

"And whose brilliant idea was it to look in here?" Bel was smirking contentedly, always eager to pour more salt on Squalo's fresh wounds.

"Don't look at _me_, you little shit! Lussuria suggested it!"

Belphegor found that quite amusing. "Since when did you start listening to what Lussuria suggests, Captain Squalo? I never thought I'd live to see the day."

"Since this morning, moron, when our stupid boss told me I have twenty four hours to find him an illusionst. Anyway, when I mentioned the archive, _you_ jumped so high you almost cracked the ceiling with your empty head, so just shut the hell up. The only thing you did was pick the shitty lock." A disturbing thought swam up to the surface of his mind. "Hey, Bel! When _did_ you learn to pick locks like this one? Is that what you're doing when you're all cooped up in that stinking hole you call a room?"

Belphegor scowled. "There's nothing wrong with my room."

"There sure is, brat. It's all that useless crap you've got there. You can't even see the damn floor for it. Just admit it already, your room's a fucking mess."

Squalo watched the sour look settle upon Bel's features and congratulated himself. He had deserved this little revenge, especially in the gloomy, merciless light of the fact that, apparently, he was going to spend more time in Belphegor's company. He didn't doubt that this endeavor would take years from his life and wreck his nervous system, so it was only fair to take the brat down a peg or two. The punk tended to get carried away, so it was only prudent to remind him who was the boss. Well, the second-in-command, anyway.

Besides, Squalo thought without even a shadow of sympathy, he hadn't said anything that wasn't true. Bel's room, and Squalo only referred to it as a room out of habit, was the dirtiest, messiest place he had ever had the misfortune to enter. Even by the rather low standards of the Varia Headquarters, it was an absolute disaster. Whereas the hideout in general was littered with random stuff, Bel's room was crammed with it. It seemed that he never disposed of anything, except maybe when he felt like throwing garbage out of the window to see if it would accidentally kill someone unnecessary on its way down. Every damn time Squalo had to venture into Bel's territory – he hated to do it, but sometimes the circumstances were against him – he took care not to trip over something disgusting, like dirty underwear or a rotten banana peel.

Squalo was nowhere near as obsessive-compulsive as Lussuria, who even freaked out if plates weren't sparkling, squeaky clean and arranged into neat rows; and he considered it quite normal to leave unwashed glasses on the bedside table, or kick his boots aside after he had taken them off – those were all signs that a human being inhabited the space. But there was a limit to everything, dammit. Belphegor's room was so full of crap, it was impossible to navigate safely. It was Squalo's personal opinion that a bulldozer was the only thing that might save the place. Well, that or a bucketful of oil and a match. If it ever came to the second scenario, Squalo was even inclined to assist.

Bel himself was never going to admit he was a slob, of course.

"A simpleton like you, Captain Squalo, may be content with spartan furnishings consisting of a straw mattress and a chamber pot, but a royal successor like me needs a little more than this."

Squalo did his best to ignore the jibe. "Whatever, brat. Just answer the freaking question."

"Mammon always hated to leave the money behind." Belphegor shrugged casually. "So whenever we eliminated a target, we'd search the house and open all lockers and rooms and stuff. We took jewellery too." He suddenly brightened up, as if this particular memory was especially dear to him.

Squalo could only shake his head in disbelief, as his mind promptly supplied an image of a teenage Bel sprinting away from a burning castle with a bag full of sparkly diamonds and rubies, Mammon floating above him like a sated little scavenger.

Meanwhile, Belphegor was still taking a stroll down the Memory Lane. "Sometimes they refused to tell us where they kept the money." He gave a wistful sigh. "That was when the things got _really_ funny."

Squalo felt a little sick. He wasn't partial to the creative torture that Bel loved to inflict on his victims. Killing was alright: it was all in a day's work, and some people were so fucking pathetic they didn't even deserve to be left alive anyway, especially if they took it upon themselves to meddle in the affairs of the mafia in general and Vongola in particular. And if the business they interfered with belonged to the Varia, offing the little pests was practically a sacred duty. It was a matter of sanitation.

Torture was another story, though. In Squalo's opinion, it was rarely necessary, at least if the hitman in question was any good at his job; and the desire to slowly slice people into tiny bits with a sharp little knife while giggling and shaking uncontrollably was a clear sign of psychopathy. Squalo himself had always been able to extract all the information he needed without resorting to scooping the targets' brains out of their skulls with a spoon. A big sword constituted an argument no one could ever overlook. As a result, people were always very keen on telling him things. They were acutely aware of how short and inglorious the rest of their lives may turn out to be should they choose to remain silent. However, Squalo had had, on a number of occasions, the misfortune to see what was left of Bel's playthings after the brat was finished with them. His first urge had been to either kill Belphegor while he wasn't paying attention, or lock him up somewhere safe, preferably underground, so that the little shit had no chance in hell of getting out again. He had done none of these things, of course, but he had thought a great deal about the matter.

Although his looks and outward behavior suggested otherwise, Squalo was, in fact, a very practical, cold-blooded person. It required more than brute strength and a loud voice to cut his way up from the gutter he had started in to his current position; and he wasn't enough of a sentimental idiot to actually believe the Varia was one big, happy family just because they seemed to have known each other since forever. It was Lussuria's crazy idea, and Squalo even doubted the faggot himself was entirely serious about it, after all the killing and marauding, and especially after getting a friendly bullet from Xanxus the moment he failed to live up to the infamous Varia quality. Or maybe Lussuria had never meant it in the first place, perhaps it was just a show; always a possibility whenever the freak was involved. Everything was slightly fake with Lussuria.

Squalo had no illusions about the situation. He took the Varia for what it truly was – a pack of wolves, for the lack of a better term, who ran and hunted and killed together, and had a proper hierarchy and a strong leader they all respected, because it was convenient that way and it ensured their collective survival. If one of them, including Xanxus, faltered and fell, the others would tear him to shreds and feed on him in order to keep running. That was just how it worked. It had been more or less the same when he killed Tyr. No hard feelings.

He knew without a doubt that Belphegor was most likely incurably insane. There was no telling when he might snap and who it would be directed at, of course, but simple logic indicated that those who hung around the little shit most often should never forget about the danger. It was only sensible to take precautions. Squalo had, after some very deep thinking, devised three ingenious plans to dispose of his royal highness should he go completely ballistic. One of them involved _losing_ Bel during a mission – accidents tended to happen, after all, so why not to the brat? Inwardly, Squalo was quite proud of himself, although he hoped he would never need to put those plans into action.

However, as he listened to Bel plunge into details about the many wondrous things he used to do to those who refused to disclose the whereabouts of money and jewellery, Squalo felt like the time for the final judgement had arrived. Unfortunately, he was also quite sure Xanxus would not approve. With a great effort, he stomped on the desire to wring Belphegor's puny neck and limited his irritation to hurling a couple of particularly heavy folders at the brat's head. To his dismay, Bel's reflexes weren't dulled despite the fact that he seemed engrossed in his monologue; and he dived out of harm's way, letting the folders sail over his head and hit the opposite wall. But at least he stopped talking.

"What was that for?" Bel straightened up again, a sour, almost childish expression on what could be seen of his face.

Squalo shot him a look of pure disgust. "You can reminisce later!" he snapped. "Right now you should damn well focus on the job and find the fucking illusionist!"

"Actually I've got another one here." Belphegor's grin resurfaced immediately and was threatening to split his face into two. He waved a suspiciously thin gray folder in the air. "I'm a genius _and_ a prince after all."

"Don't give me that crap, you punk! Where does this one live?" Squalo could tell he wasn't going to like the answer, which, of course, was exactly the reason Bel felt overjoyed. The punk was clearly having fun; and as well he might, thought Squalo bitterly, since it wasn't him who'd get kicked around by the boss next morning. "If it's Brazil again, you can shove it. No way I'm going there. I'm not fucking compatible with the selva."

"No idea. I was going to read it, but now I won't. Do it yourself."

Patience, said Squalo to himself. He was going to stay calm. If he knocked the irritating little piece of crap unconscious now, who would help him? Levi was absent, presumably still making a barbecue out of his target in Rome; Lussuria was busy introducing the pathetic noobs to the true Varia lifestyle, which included getting your own ass handed to you daily by your boss; and Xanxus was about as helpful as he was kind, which meant not at all. Belphegor, no matter how Squalo hated to put up with his ceaseless squeaking and his annoying laughter, was the only one left.

He reached over, snatched the folder out of Bel's hands and opened it on the first page.

Printed in big, bold letters at the very top of it was one word: Fran.

-/-

As Mukuro Rokudo navigated the body of someone named Guido Greco – a fifteen-year-old boy who had recently massacred a small crowd of people without even a trace of regret, how nostalgic – across the streets of Florence toward its historic centre, he was in two minds about both the oncoming meeting and its subject.

Technically speaking, being _in two minds_ had long since become part of the daily routine for Mukuro who had found that the only way to get any entertainment, and, in fact, any life at all while being stuck in a glass jar was to slither into the mind of someone who had the luxury of walking free. Also, it was the only way to preserve whatever was left of his sanity, and Mukuro valued those remains a great deal, suspecting that he might need them in the future.

As years passed, he had become so good at possessing people that no special bullets were required to do the trick any longer. He just concentrated, looking for a suitable, malleable individual – thank goodness, the clueless weaklings with no self-control were abundant in the world – then reached out and pried the victim's mind open, suppressing its previous owner in the process. Some died in the end, unable to bear being prisoners where they should be masters; the poor, pathetic things. Others survived; and as he left them after they outlived their usefulness, after he got bored and tired, he would feel them crawl back from under the proverbial rock, slowly, cautiously resuming the shaky hold on the bodies that were rightfully theirs. Sad, really. Mukuro knew they'd never be quite the same, of course, but it failed to stop him. No one had ever asked whether _he_ wanted to be experimented on or not. No one had ever been concerned about how _he_ felt about floating inside a jar for more than five years in a row.

Unfortunately, there were limits to how far he could push a vessel. Most people broke down quite fast, and after several dozens of failed attempts, Mukuro had been forced to admit that it was impossible for him to inhabit a dead body. If he wanted to seize control, he needed a consciousness of a living human being. It may be weak, and downtrodden, and writhing in pain – and all the better if it was – but it had to be alive. If there was no mind, there was nothing to possess.

Mukuro hated it when the host suddenly kicked the bucket, especially if it happened when he had interesting plans for the evening.

Luckily, there were people with a certain... _affinity_, to put it tactfully. People who didn't die, or go insane, or suffer a mental breakdown as soon as he left them. They were rare animals, true, rare to the point that sometimes they seemed to have gone completely extinct, like dinosaurs; but they existed. Chrome was like that. He could enter her mind from across the oceans and continents, and the connection was as strong as if he possessed someone only a mile away. Chrome's was a hospitable mind, opening up to him before he even had to ask, inviting him to stay for as long as he wished. Mukuro liked that. Few people were delighted to see him, and those who enjoyed having him in their heads were fewer still.

What he didn't like was another category – Mukuro knew his trade well and he could single them out of the crowd in a split second – which consisted of those who would never submit to his will. He found them both fascinating, not unlike a particularly complicated puzzle, and repulsive, because he was unable to control them, at the same time. Reborn, the Sun Arcobaleno, was a stellar example. It was almost as bad as the Vindice, really; except that when Mukuro, at the very beginning of his stay in the cozy underground prison, had tried to possess a Vindice, he had encountered an unsettling sensation of absence, a void instead of a mind that might be taken over. It was _not_ a pleasant feeling. He hadn't made a second attempt. He wasn't going to make a move against Reborn either; not yet at least. All his honed instincts, vast experience and sharp intuition united in a harmonious choir kept yelling that it would be unforgivable madness and nothing short of suicide to even attempt to take control of someone like Reborn.

Or someone like Xanxus.

Mukuro had always trusted his instincts. That was why he was having doubts about the oncoming meeting with the leader of the Varia.

It wasn't only his hatred of the mafia coupled with the fact that Xanxus was as much of a mafioso as it was possible to become. It wasn't that Mukuro feared the man might decide to kill him either. Whether Xanxus could defeat him or not remained unclear, although in the shadowy sanctuary of his mind, the only sanctuary available to him, Mukuro was quite sure that he could. Sky was the strangest of all elements, and its wielders should never be underestimated. He had learned it from his own bitter experience, after all. Sky-users were tricky, and Xanxus with his Flame of Wrath was more or less a fluke to begin with – Mukuro could relate to that, being a fluke himself.

However, there was one advantage the Mist had over all other elements, including the Sky: it was the ability to transform and transcend, the infamous cliché of _creating something from nothing_, or, as Mukuro sometimes preferred to put it, being everywhere and nowhere at the same time. What use would it be to Xanxus that he could pack a punch powerful enough to bash Mukuro's skull, if the skull in question didn't really belong to Mukuro? If the things started to look really ugly, he would simply retract his projected self and be safe again.

No, Mukuro wasn't afraid at all. Nevertheless, he was feeling edgy and not enjoying it. The reason wasn't news: he was going to make a rather important deal with a person whose behavior he could neither predict nor control. Same as with Reborn, there was a certain unyielding flatness about Xanxus, an unmistakable feeling that no matter what might be happening on the surface, so to speak, there was enough will-power to move a mountain and a mind like a knife underneath. It was a special kind of intelligence that had little to do with erudition or the number of books the man had read – in truth, Mukuro found it hard to imagine a reading Xanxus – it was the intelligence of a hunter, or a predator always ready for the kill. It suited Xanxus very well, but it didn't make the situation any more pleasant for Mukuro.

He was used to being the puppeteer, the one pulling the strings from behind the scenes; and it always made him nervous when he was forced to let the matters run their course. Sadly, the deal he was going to make with the boss of the Vongola assassins wasn't something he could forget in a hurry or put off till the better times. If everything went according to the plan, it would one day become the key to his freedom.

Mukuro really wished he could finally get out of the jar. It was, without a doubt, his top priority now, taking precedence over everything else. To guarantee that eventually this dream would come true, he was prepared to interact with people like Xanxus as often as necessary. It didn't mean he forsook his greatest ideal – to destroy the mafia and all that was related to it in any way – but it would have to wait until he regained his freedom. Possession was a nice trick, but some things just weren't the same unless you used your own body.

Steering Guido Greco toward Piazza della Repubblica, Mukuro rehearsed the words he needed to say again in his mind.

Technically speaking, everything had already been discussed, and the only thing left to do was to make sure Xanxus didn't suddenly decide he might be better off without Mukuro's help or simply forget about the agreement altogether, because he was exactly the type. It was important to impress upon the man that the merchandise he was about to get had no analogies anywhere in the world, and was of exceptional quality and easy to handle. Mukuro could sense trouble there, partly because the _easy to handle_ claim wasn't exactly true, and partly because he expected it to be quite hard to impress anything upon Xanxus.

Still, it absolutely had to be done. If he let this chance of securing his future escape lumber away, who knew when the next opportunity might present itself.

He spotted the leader of the Varia from afar – thankfully, Guido Greco had excellent eyesight – and headed in his direction. A wave of relief washed over him, because he had half-expected Xanxus not to show up at all. Fortunately, things seemed to be progressing nicely so far.

Xanxus, leaning casually against a very black, very sleek Lamborghini parked on the edge of the square, turned his head, and immediately his eyes settled upon Mukuro. He expressed no surprise or curiosity despite the fact that he had never seen Guido Greco in his life; and last time they met, Mukuro had used another vessel. His gaze was flat and perfectly unreadable – another thing about Xanxus that the illusionist found rather distasteful. He just looked at Mukuro impassively, waiting for him to approach, and didn't even deign to offer a greeting.

It didn't matter, of course. Small talk had never been included in the program for the day to begin with.

"I don't have any time to waste on you, scumbag," were the first words that left Xanxus' lips as soon as Mukuro wandered into the earshot. "If you have something useful to say, spit it out. Otherwise, get the hell out of my sight."

Mukuro put on a syrupy smile. "I see you're being your usual charming self, Xanxus." It was his personal know-how that if you smiled at someone who disliked you, it made them nervous. If they disliked you openly, it worked even better. "But as a matter of fact, I believe that now that we're about to enter a mutually beneficial deal–"

"Two minutes."

"Excuse me?"

"You have two minutes, trash. I've got better things to do than to listen to you blather."

With an effort, Mukuro kept the smile firmly in place. "Very well then. Are you going to accept my offer? I assure you that you will never find a better option anywhere."

Xanxus gave him a long, hard look. Mukuro could feel the proverbial sands shift under his feet. He hurried to explain.

"I personally trained him during the last three years, and I can guarantee that the current level of his skills is indeed one of the best in the world _and_ he still has untapped potential. He may lack experience in some areas, but he is a fast learner, so that is not going to be a problem, is it? I believe–"

"Save your breath, scum. _Exactly_ how powerful is he?"

Inwardly, Mukuro congratulated himself. The conversation was flowing in the right direction.

"Well, in fact, I estimate him to be powerful enough to fool the Vindice, for example, and there can't be more than three or four illusionists, including myself, that are capable of performing such a feat. Is that satisfactory?"

One corner of Xanxus' mouth quirked up, creating a grin full of understanding and malicious triumph. "So that's what you're after. You're counting on the little piece of trash to set you free, aren't you?"

Mukuro considered the variety of available answers. He could try to lie – lying came as naturally as breathing to him – but why bother? It was probably for the best that Xanxus knew his real motives: this way, he might be more inclined to trust him.

He widened his smile. "So what if it's true? Wouldn't you do the same in my place?"

"Hm. If he's so fucking good, what the hell are you waiting for? Haven't had enough of the Vindice yet?"

Mukuro winced slightly. Xanxus was not a smooth talker. "Hardly. Unfortunately, no matter how good my pupil is when it comes to illusions, it is not sufficient to organize a proper break-out. But I would prefer to keep him available for when all the necessary arrangements have been made."

"Don't trust your trash of a pupil, do you?" The mockery in Xanxus' voice was impossible to overlook. "Think he'll slink away and leave you to rot in your cubbyhole?"

"I count on you to enforce the much needed discipline on him, Xanxus," said Mukuro in a sugary tone. "Seeing how that seems to be your best quality as well as the purpose of your entire existence."

The eyes of the Varia boss narrowed slightly, but then he smirked again, mirthlessly. "Aren't you afraid I'll squash your brat before your sleazy plans come together?"

Mukuro was aware of that risk. The Varia wasn't a picnic.

"I'm quite sure his survival instincts will permit him to recognize the dangers of working for your squad and correct his behavior according to the circumstances." He tilted his head to one side. "Does that mean we have a deal?"

"Hm."

Mukuro didn't like the sound of it. He hadn't come so far to enjoy the look of amused boredom on Xanxus' face.

"You're not going to regret it," he said in his most convincing voice and was a little chagrined to find that it didn't come out as good as he had hoped. Guido Greco's vocal cords seemed to be ill-suited for such subtleties. "It is in my best interests to make sure you get a valuable asset. After all, I need him to be around when my plan comes to fruition eventually. Rest assured, he's more than capable of filling in for your Arcobaleno."

"Take a deep breath and relax, scumbag." Xanxus opened the driver's door and dived inside the car. "I've already dispatched some morons to fetch your precious little shit. I fucking _estimate_ him to be delivered to our Headquarters tomorrow around midday." He sneered, starting the engine and casting another glance at Mukuro. "He'd better be as good as you say he is, or I'll shoot his filthy hide full of holes. And as for you, trash, try to use your shitty imagination and possess someone else next time. You're too fucking obvious."

Before Mukuro could come up with a decent reply, the Lamborghini shot off at a frightening speed, forcing passers-by to squeak and jump out of the way. There were some shouting about the scoundrels ignoring the rules and even a couple of suggestions to call the police that died down quite quickly because the culprit disappeared from view before anyone had a chance to act.

Mukuro wandered into the nearest cafe, lost in thought. All in all, he was quite pleased with the outcome of the meeting. Certainly, Xanxus was a bastard of epic proportions, but the goal had been achieved, and that was what mattered. Mukuro couldn't think of a better candidate to keep his worthless little pupil in line. Xanxus, and Squalo, and the rest of the cheerful psychopaths that made up the chaos that was the Vongola Independent Assassination Squad were the best medicine for those never-ending onslaughts of spleen and apathy, and those disgusting mood swings that he like to exhibit.

If the boy tried to escape, they would hunt him down; if he resisted, they would beat obedience into him; if he started to show character, they would run him in circles until he begged for mercy and when he finally did, they would make him run some more. They would whip him into shape whether he wanted it or not; but most importantly, when the time came for him to play his part, he'd be ready for it. If nothing else, his stay with them was bound to be unbelievably educational.

Mukuro let out a soft laugh. Indeed, the Varia was the ideal place for Fran.

* * *

A/N: So, how do you like my Mukuro? Isn't he a dear? Anyway, I know Fran is only here in spirit, but I was unable to fit everything into this chapter, so he will show up again in the next one. We'll probably even get to know what he thinks, and it may not be pretty.

Also, I've been asked if this story is going to end once they get their dirty clutches on Fran; and the answer is - it's _not_. It was supposed to, but then again, it was supposed to be a one-shot, and yet here we are. It's going to continue because I'm having too much fun writing these guys. :)

Thank you for all your wonderful reviews - they're the joy of my life, you know - and please leave me another one!


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

_(which contains unanswered questions, imaginary food and one very careless wish)_

-/-

Just Fran. There was nothing else, no explanation.

Squalo frowned. He had barely started reading the file and already he wasn't liking it. He was pretty sure _Fran_ wasn't even a name. No one in their right mind would name their kid Fran; it was fucking nonsense. Who would want a _fran_ running around the house? Too bad that, in Squalo's experience, most people not only couldn't boast of being in their right mind, but even had trouble finding their own ass without a detailed map. Anyway, the name – if one could call it a name – sounded like an acronym, although he had no idea as to what might be hiding behind it. Nothing useful, judging by the looks of it. _F_ had a tendency to stand for financial, in most cases, but as Squalo stared at the rather low-quality picture below the name, he thought that he had yet to see anything less promising in the money-making department than this excuse for an illusionist.

For one thing, the brat – and it _was_ a brat, around Belphegor's age perhaps, or slightly younger – had the hair color so ridiculous that he could easily compete with a Cervello, should the fancy take him that way. It was a disgustingly bright, painstakingly cheerful mint green; and it was, in Squalo's opinion, a privilege of those happily devoid of braincells to do shit like this to themselves.

Another thing that caught his attention was the brat's face. It was by all means a very ordinary face: the nose, the mouth and the eyes of a vaguely greenish shade were all there somewhere, but one had to _concentrate_ to actually see it. Even on the photograph, the guy seemed almost unnoticeable. Squalo rubbed his chin thoughtfully. If that was how this Fran person looked in real life, he wasn't just a face in the crowd, he was a fucking empty space. Invisible, despite his outrageous hair. Squalo could never quite put his finger on it, but some people had the talent to remain inconspicuous in the middle of an angry crowd that had been assembled specifically to look for them. He had often wondered how it was possible to pull off this sort of thing and never arrived at a satisfactory conclusion, but here seemed to be an irresistible proof that guys like that existed. Squalo, who found it incredibly hard to go unnoticed even when he tried like hell, considered this a very valuable quality in a hitman; and it would undoubtedly give Fran some extra points were it not for his expression.

The expression was most definitely all wrong.

It was indifferent, which in itself wasn't exactly encouraging news and probably contributed to the general effect of transparency exhibited by the brat, but Squalo knew there was more than one kind of indifference. Xanxus looked indifferent all the time, unless he was busy tearing some unfortunate soul limb from limb in a fit of rage, but that was simply because he believed it was beneath him to worry about insignificant crap. He had his subordinates to do the worrying and he didn't give a damn about their opinion on the matter. It was an indifference born out of arrogance – not a yogurt cake, certainly, but who cared?

Fran's expression, on the other hand, was more like the lack of any expression whatsoever. The empty, vacant gaze especially made Squalo pause and scowl. It hinted at a whole bunch of potential mental aberrations; and they already had one hopeless psycho in the Varia. Alternatively, the brat could be on drugs. During his rather eventful life, Squalo had seen countless addicts, in various stages of intoxication, and that glassy, spaced-out look stirred up a great deal of memories, most of them unpleasant.

On the other hand, while Squalo himself despised the phenomenon with a fierce passion, it wasn't really an obstacle on the road to becoming a good illusionist. There was no particular policy, no rules regarding the matter in the Varia either. If you wanted to kill yourself in an interesting fashion, or if you felt lonely without seeing several pink elephants happily zoom past your left ear every other day, it was your choice. Everything was permitted in the Varia, provided you kept it to your private territory and were adequate enough to get on with the work when it presented itself. Besides, illusionists were often loony. Perhaps the only way to drive insane an enemy was to be insane yourself. Squalo didn't know, nor did he care to find out. He was just glad his element was Rain, not Mist.

Giving the picture another disdainful glance – he noticed that the Fran guy was actually wearing a t-shirt with a large smiley printed on the front and wondered if this was his way of compensating – Squalo proceeded to read the pathetic five pages of text that were supposed to tell him the story of the brat's life.

It turned out to be more baffling than exciting, because little was exciting about blank spaces and question marks. Those truly were numerous. His age was given as _around twenty_; his last name was unknown (the file suggested a choice of four, and all could very well be fake) and so was his country of birth, although there was a _presumably Calais, Northern France _handwritten by Mammon on the edge; and the information about his childhood was mostly guesswork. There were dozens of assumptions and no certainty about any damn thing, except perhaps his current whereabouts. According to the file, the little shit could be found in Paris, rue Chapon, if anyone cared to go and look – he must have decided to try and conquer the big city or whatever it was country brats did to prove they had guts – but the rest was all rather vague and ambiguous.

At least there seemed to be no doubt about him being an illusionist, Squalo thought with irritation. What the hell was up with the Mist creeps these days, anyway? One decent candidate and even he had got himself lost in the selva. The stupid boss was going to be livid. He was going not only to shoot fire, but spit it as well. He would make up an entirely new way of being unpleasant in order to try it out on Squalo. The next morning suddenly appeared to have crept uncomfortably close.

There was no more fucking time to lose. He had to procure an illusionist _now_; even a very lame one would do. The worst decision imaginable would be to show up before Xanxus empty-handed. There was a number of things Xanxus did to those who dared try something like this.

Despairing, Squalo skimmed over the rest, trying to get the general idea of who this Fran was and if he could still be put to good use in the Varia. He doubted it; and it seemed that Mammon hadn't been too sure of what to make of the guy either. The Arcobaleno spoke highly of the brat's skills – that was fine – but it remained unclear where exactly those skills had come from, or how they had developed to such an extent, or even what he wanted to do with them. In Squalo's mind, Fran took form of a big, mint-green question mark lolling gently from side to side, like a cruise ship crossing the ocean.

"What's the matter?" Belphegor decided to remind Squalo of his royal presense. "You look like you've sniffed a rotten banana."

"Keep talking and I'll make a banana split out of you, and use your blood for the syrup." Squalo was not in the mood to play sardonic table tennis with the brat. "What's up with you and bananas, anyway? I saw a bunch in that basket in your shitty room."

Bel perked up. "You did?" He looked put out. "Tch. I didn't even notice them under all the apples. Damn the cooks."

"Lussuria's cooking today," said Squalo absent-mindedly. "Trying some new shit, he says."

There was a thoughtful silence, as Belphegor digested the information. "New shit? Like a soup?"

"Yeah, I guess," Squalo was too absorbed in reading to pay proper attention to the undertones. "It smelt weird."

"What kind of soup?"

"Huh?"

"What _kind_ of soup? I mean, the ingredients. What did he put into it?"

Squalo felt a surge of extreme annoyance. "How the hell am I supposed to know? I wouldn't touch it with a long pole, and neither should you, unless you're into fried grasshoppers and monkey brains and this freaking whatsitsname." He tried to remember the word and gave up after a couple of seconds. "Made of rotten fish, you know? Sold in cans, stinks like hell?"

"Surströmming," replied Bel automatically, a curiously frozen expression on his face. "It's called surströmming."

"Right." Squalo grimaced. "That's the stuff. It's not even food, it's a biological weapon... Anyway, you know Lussuria, he makes shit up as he goes along. Just forget the fucking soup and– " He paused as the realization dawned, and then smirked gleefully. "Huh. You've already eaten it, haven't you, brat? So, what was it this time? Boiled caterpillars?"

"I don't know what it was!" snapped Bel, rising to his feet with an air of a general who had just been informed that his troops had lost a battle where they were supposed to have an advantage. "I'm going to skewer the faggot right now. I'll make him look like a porcupine. No one does this to the prince and survives."

Squalo wiped the smirk off his face. "Like hell you're going anywhere, shithead! We've got a job to do, and you're not getting out of it! You can kick Lussuria's ass later if you want, but right now, g_et the hell back to work._" And, noticing that his words hadn't had enough effect, he added. "Consider this a fucking order."

There was a moment of hesitation, but then, to Squalo's immense surprise, the brat settled back down and picked up the folder he'd cast away upon learning about the origins of his meal.

"Fine." He said mildly, smoothing out the crumpled pages. His face broke into a happy grin. "It'll give me time to think of a really good revenge, you know."

Squalo rolled his eyes wearily, but refrained from commenting or inquiring about the details. Whatever Bel and Lussuria did to each other, it was none of his business. He wasn't going to poke his nose into it, not even if the maniacs sent him a formal invitation. He had more than enough on his plate with just his regular duties and finding Mammon's replacement; being a referee in a squabble between Bel and Lussuria wasn't anywhere near his dream job. Xanxus could do it if he wanted them to stop.

Pushing his colleagues firmly out of his mind, Squalo turned back to Fran's file. By this time, he wasn't expecting much from it; but there was such a thing as being thorough, and Squalo liked to count this quality among his many virtues.

At the very bottom of the last page, there was one word he hadn't noticed before, thanks to Belphegor's kitchen adventures. Written in black ink, it appeared to have been added by someone who as sure as hell wasn't Mammon.

Squalo had seen Mammon's handwriting a million times – his and Lussuria's were probably the only ones he recognized, due to the fact that notes scribbled by either of them would eventually turn up at random places all around the headquarters. Lussuria's writings, which were mostly recipes or futile appeals to the other members of the squad to tidy up after themselves, tended to wind up in the kitchen and were characteristic for their excessive, sickeningly curly, heavily-decorated style. Sometimes Lussuria would even draw _flowers_ around the edges. Flowers and hearts. Every time Squalo happened to stumble upon one of them, it made him want to gag. Mammon's handwriting – various examples of it could be found on paychecks and other money-related documents – was compact and economic, letters huddling up against each other like lost puppies, giving the impression that the Arcobaleno was too greedy to waste more paper than was strictly necessary.

The single word adorning the last page of the file had obviously been put there by someone who, by the looks of it, wasn't Mr. Nice Guy material. The lines, sharp and slashing and bold, appeared to be trying to convey the author's impatience as well as his disgruntlement at the general inadequacy of the universe. Squalo raked his brain, hoping a memory of some sort would float up, but nothing enlightening happened. Still, the handwriting seemed vaguely familiar, as if he had already encountered it somewhere, perhaps a long time ago. It was damn hard to tell now – he wasn't a graphologist, after all, and he had never been into writing stuff by hand, preferring to stick to computers instead. With a computer you knew if your letter got sent, at least, which was substantially more than what could be said about the snail mail. The last time he actually wrote something must have been a decade ago, if not more. It was practically another lifetime. Maybe, if the mysterious author had cared to leave behind more than one word – and just who the hell wrote one fucking word and left it at that, anyway? – Squalo would be able to figure out his identity, but this just wasn't enough. Well, whatever. He let the message swim into focus.

He froze.

The word was _Rokudo_. It was underlined in the same brutal, no-nonsense manner, the tip of the pen very nearly tearing through the paper. It was full of self-importance and well aware of it. It made a point of letting anyone who might stumble upon the freaking file know that it was actually the only word worth reading.

Squalo stared at it for several long moments. Rokudo.

The only Rokudo that he could think of was still enjoying the boundless hospitality of the Vindice, and it wasn't going to change any time soon, no matter how much some people might wish it were otherwise. Squalo felt quite secure in his belief that if something extraordinary had indeed occurred, he would have learned about it – not immediately, perhaps, but within a day or two. The Varia ran an extensive network of spies, and on top of that, Squalo made an effort to have his own, independent sources of information as well, because he liked to know what was going on in the world. A hitman who allowed himself to relax and rest on his laurels was a dead hitman; and Squalo enjoyed being alive too much to go in this direction yet. He knew that the others all did the same thing, even though no one ever shared any details.

Fran's file had suffered the last major update a little more than six months ago, shortly before Mammon's death – the Arcobaleno, bless his greedy little soul, had a habit of putting dates everywhere – and Mukuro Rokudo was still safely tucked away in a jar. The _Rokudo_ word, however, couldn't have been written more than a month ago, Squalo was able to tell just by looking. Whoever had done it must have had a good reason – Squalo couldn't imagine anyone wasting time dragging their ass all the way up here, unlocking the bloody door, and digging up a single folder out of thousands, unless they believed the effort was worth it.

Unless they knew for sure someone was going to read the fucking file very soon. Unless they wanted it to happen.

Squalo's fingers tightened on the edge of the folder. Someone out there seemed to have gained access to a great deal of inside information. This could only mean two things, and Squalo found himself hard-pressed to decide which one was more insulting: either there was a security breach – a security breach! in his ever-fucking Varia! – and some lucky outsider was leeching off it to his heart's content; or, and that was probably worse, the culprit was actually part of the Squad. Squalo was inclined to believe it was the latter.

He growled under his breath. Some pathetic little shit had the gall to try cleverness on _him_? Thought they could pull one over on him, on his own turf, did they? They were _so_ going to regret it, Squalo promised darkly. No fucking way he was going to put up with this crap. He would weed them all out and then he would take his sweet time disembowelling them. He didn't know what their purpose was, not yet, but figuring it out was only be a matter of time. Sadly, time appeared to be a luxury Squalo couldn't afford at the moment, thanks to his dumb boss; so, the way he saw it, he might as well start with the Fran guy, and, with any luck, he would be able to kill two birds with one stone. Obviously, Fran was up to his ears in all this – otherwise, why the hell was his file singled out in such a suspicious manner? – and Squalo needed an illusionist anyway, especially if he wanted to meet Xanxus' deadline.

Besides, according to the file, Fran resided in Paris. Squalo liked that. It meant no traipsing across hot, humid rainforests, communicating with bugs and mosquitoes and running an unpleasant risk of coming down with some dumbass fever. Certainly, carrying out an assignment in a big, buzzing city overflowing with people, traffic, shops and other forms of civilized life wasn't as simple as offing some lousy coward trying to dig himself a cozy hole on a desert island with no witnesses or police to help him out, but Squalo wasn't the type to shy away from a challenge. Quite the opposite, in fact. And it had an upside, too – most things did if only you knew where to look – and in this particular case it was the fact that it was much easier to sneak up on a target if random idiots kept milling about, whereas out in the country everyone saw you approaching from a mile off.

Also, Paris was close. Compared to Brasil, it was practically on the other side of the street. There was even an address, dammit – 3rd arrondissment, rue Chapon, wherever that was. He could always look it up on a shitty map if push came to shove. If he didn't dawdle, it might even be possible to go and retrieve Fran and return to Italy before the time was up. This way, his job would be done, Xanxus would have to wake the hell up for once and make the final decision whether he wanted it or not; and while the boss drank his shitty tequila and cogitated, he, Squalo, would have ample time to bully the green-haired punk into answering the questions and revealing his accomplices – the ones in the Varia in particular. He would also find out what Mukuro Rokudo had to do with the whole ordeal, since apparently there was a connection of sorts between him and Fran. Some creepy Mist business, probably. And if the little shit turned out to be tough – he didn't look it, but you could never tell with some people – there was a wonderful possibility to dump the rest of the work on Belphegor. Squalo was pretty sure the royal brat would jump at the opportunity to inflict some torture on yet another loser. Lussuria also would do. Despite his ridiculous appearance, the faggot was capable of coming up with ideas that were so unimaginably repulsive that even Xanxus generally preferred to change the subject so as not to learn any unnecessary details. Lesser creatures remained scarred for life.

Squalo ran a hand through his hair, giving the plan a mental once-over. It all looked pretty sensible. Feasible too, if he hurried up and set out immediately. In the end, everyone was bound to be happy, except for Fran and his buddies, obviously; but the little retard should have used his brains before he decided to play with fire. It was his own fucking fault. The Varia didn't have to be nice, after all.

"Are you dead already, Captain Squalo?"

He snapped the folder shut and rose to his feet. "Voi, brat! How long will it take me to get to Paris?"

"Two hours, approximately," replied Belphegor, the walking encyclopedia. "Why?"

"I'm gonna go and drag this Fran here, and let our fucking boss chew on it. I'm not wasting any more of my time breathing dust in this shithole."

Bel burst into laughter. "I thought you didn't like my choice."

"Like hell it was your choice, dumbass. You didn't even open the damn folder. Anyway, you can get your fat ass out of here now, cause I don't need you anymore. Go and dissect a fucking kitten or whatever the hell it is you do in you free time."

"No way. It's only fair that I go with you, if I'm going to have to work with this guy. I want to have a good look at him before we pick him up."

Squalo opened his mouth to advise Bel to crawl back into his dirty lair and die there quietly, but thought better of it. What was happening – the damn brat volunteering to work when no one asked him to – was practically fairytale stuff, a miracle, like Christmas coming early, or a charitable Xanxus. It was a dream come true. No matter how hard he tried, Squalo couldn't remember another time when they hadn't been forced to spend at least ten minutes persuading Bel to move his ass in the correct direction. And yet here he was, bursting with enthusiasm and rearing to go.

Squalo rubbed his chin thoughtfully, quickly calculating the risks and disadvantages of teaming up with Belphegor. The greatest one was that he'd have to put up with the punk's crazy antics and keep an eye on him all the time if he wanted to complete the mission successfully and avoid explanatory paperwork. It would undoubtedly prove to be very tiring, not to mention annoying, but Squalo believed he could cope with it. Besides, simple logic indicated that going after a supposedly accomplished illusionist all by himself wasn't the best idea in the history of mankind, especially if the purpose was to capture the little shit, not kill him.

Squalo always thought of the Mist as a hypocritical, two-faced element, both weak and strong at the the same time, important but unreliable, like quicksands, and fucking _complicated_. He was more than just good when it came to distinguishing fakes from reality; and on his own, he was sure he could slaughter any illusionist, no matter how powerful. The trick was to find the real thing, especially since most of them were completely pathetic when the actual fight – and the actual fun – started. Catching one of the little creeps was another story altogether, and, Squalo suspected, not the kind of story he was going to enjoy very much. He really didn't have the patience for things like this. Belphegor's slightly lopsided intellect, as well as his stupid knives, might be a good if bitter remedy, so it was worth a shot.

And besides, no way he was going to miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If his fucking majesty suddenly wanted to be useful, Squalo would make sure to squeeze as much profit out of him as was humanly possible. It was practically a matter of honour.

He returned the rest of the papers back onto their respective shelves, keeping only Fran's folder, just in case he needed to refresh his memory. Then he reached out and grabbed Bel by the scruff of his neck.

"Ah? What are you–"

"You better not try to pull one of your half-assed little stunts with me, fuckface." Squalo propelled him in the direction of the exit, completely disregarding protests and threats, even though some of them were so expressive they deserved to be written down and memorized. He knew Bel wasn't going to start a real fight now and here; he was just being an asshole and enjoying it greatly. Squalo didn't feel like playing along. "If you're not down in the lobby in twenty minutes, all ready and set up to go, I'm gonna damn well leave without you. But when I'm back, I'll be sure to find you and make you eat my fucking sword for wasting so much of my time. Got it?"

He roughly shoved Bel out into Mammon's half-destroyed room and carefully locked all four locks on the steel door. There was always a risk, no matter how small and insignificant, that one of the pathetic low-lives, those wannabe Varia hitmen crawling all around the Headquarters like cockroaches, might wander inside and find the archive. Squalo was quite adamant that exposing the insects to so much unnecessary information might prove hazardous for their tiny brains and had to be prevented. Besides, there may be spies among them. Squalo fished them out of the mass of low-ranking underlings from time to time, usually when they failed to be discreet in a really spectacular fashion. The way it looked, there probably _were_ spies around these days. Well, not for much longer.

As he heard the last – and the worst – lock activate, it occurred to him that Mammon hadn't been the type of person who might get off breaking into his own office every damn time.

That meant there were keys to this door. It made sense. But where were they?

Shortly after Mammon had kicked the bucket, Squalo had responsibly gone through most of his possessions to make sure nothing of importance was missing and in danger of falling into wrong hands. The Varia Mist Ring had been there all right, along with the Arcobaleno Pacifier, a couple of box weapons, a dozen credit cards – even Squalo who had no particular interest in money had been rendered speechless by the sheer number of zeros resting peacefully on the many bank accounts – and all documents, and the rest of the shit. There had been keys, too, but Squalo had recognized them all and knew what doors they opened. He had even checked each and every bloody one of them, so there was no mistake.

Frowning, Squalo emerged from the little passageway into the main room, stepping out of the way of the fake wall as it swung shut, manipulated by the hidden mechanism. He glanced around only to find the place completely deserted, except for himself and the large heap of books on the floor. Bel must have decided to take the clue and listen to the voice of reason for once, because Squalo saw no sign of him. Well, that was something, at least.

He set off toward his own room at a brisk pace, head filled with a thousand suspicions which he knew he would have to file away for now. If Bel showed up on time, and _he_ didn't, he would never hear the end of it. Still...

There hadn't been any extra keys among Mammon's leftover crap. He was sure of it. But there _should_ have been another set, four keys to open four locks. Back then, he hadn't even known about the fucking secret door, so it hadn't bothered him, but now it was obvious. Someone must have gotten his dirty clutches on the damn keys before him.

As Squalo entered his quarters and pulled the black uniform jacket over his shoulders, he wondered darkly who the hell the culprit was. When he was done with the Fran guy, he was going to find the bastard and make a fish kebab out of him, even if it was all an unfortunate accident. And if it wasn't, he'd make sure to be _extra_ nice.

-/-

Fran had found a paradise.

It wasn't a very good one, which was unsurprising as crooked, narrow alleyways in a big, overpopulated city are rarely comfortable and almost never clean, and this one was no exception. It didn't upset Fran though, because he wasn't planning to stay. He had stopped here to take a rest and wait until the heat subsided a little, and the place seemed to fit the general criteria (quiet, deserted and out of the sun), so Fran plopped down on the ground and proceeded to make himself at home. So far, he was feeling quite cheerful about life, by his own standards of cheerful, at least.

Despite the ever-growing number of people trying to convince him that he had an abominable sense of humor and should be prohibited to make jokes so as not to cause permanent brain damage to innocent bystanders, Fran considered himself a funny person. It was just his usual bad luck that he always ended up with those who were by nature unable to appreciate his efforts to create a pleasant atmosphere. Honestly, why would anyone want to listen to Master's opinion on the matter if his idea of a good joke was to stick a trident into your head while snickering under his breath? And W.W. was simply impervious to any form of entertainment that didn't include shopping.

But it didn't matter. Fran was sure his attempts would eventually be rewarded. There were bound to be other funny people around, and the world wasn't big enough for them to forever elude him. He'd definitely find them one day – hopefully soon – and for now, he could amuse himself just fine.

He had already been doing it for the last three hours and was in no hurry to return home – it was amazing, Fran thought, how he had actually come to call W.W.'s apartment a _home_ – because there was nothing to look forward to back there. Not this evening, anyway. Knowing her bitchy disposition, W.W. couldn't possibly have thawed out so soon, so dinner was out of question. It was his own fault, of course. Fran was always ready to admit his mistakes; at least if he really believed there were his, like now.

He should have waited until _after_ dinner before commenting on her dress. What a fail. What a waste, to let a perfectly good opportunity to stuff his face for free slip away. This morning, she had even mentioned pancakes, unless his memory was playing tricks on him again.

Fran heaved a sigh of deep regret, as his mind, added by his empty stomach, supplied an image of a big, delicious _crêpe_ filled with maple syrup. It hung in front of his eyes, personifying everything he might dream of; and Fran's mouth watered in anticipation.

It looked so good...

"Mom! Mo-om! Look there! A flying pancake!"

Fran gave a start and resurfaced from the dark depths of obsession.

At the mouth of the alleyway he was using to hide from the scorching sun stood a small boy of about four or five years, and he was staring straight at Fran. Then his gaze shifted to the left, and Fran, following his example, also turned to look, in case there was some hint why the unknown kid was suddenly paying him so much attention.

There was a hint alright.

"Ohh," said Fran, as his eyes settled on it. Master was right, he should learn to control himself. If that was how it was going to be every time he started daydreaming, he would really have to make an effort. And he was lucky Master didn't seem to be spying on him right now to witness _this_.

Approximately five feet above the ground, there was a pancake, suspended in the air. It was revolving very slowly, as if to showcase itself from all possible angles to anyone who might be interested. It appeared to be slightly bigger than a normal _crêpe_, but Fran had always believed that in the food department, bigger was better. It was rolled up in just the right way, and something dark was dripping very slowly out of one of its ends. Somehow, Fran didn't need to check to know it was maple syrup. He had no doubt it was very tasty either.

Or rather, it would be, if it were real.

"Mo-om!"

"What? What's happened to you?" A worried voice rang through the hot, unmoving air, followed shortly by the arrival of a panicky-looking young woman, trying desperately to walk both quickly and gracefully at the same time, and failing. She dashed toward the boy like a protective mother hen, but the kid wasn't the slightest bit afraid.

He pointed at the materialized figment of Fran's imagination.

"A pancake, mom! Look, it's floating in the air!"

"What are you talking about? Pancakes don't float..."

_Yes, they do_,_ but not for long_, Fran wanted to say, but bit his tongue. There was no call to draw undue attention to himself, especially not at a time like this.

However, the woman had already noticed something was wrong with the scene. She stopped fussing over her son, and her head swivelled in Fran's general direction, gaze sweeping over Fran himself without actually seeing him – nothing out of ordinary, women, starting with W.W., overlooked him all the time – until it focused on the result of his mental efforts. She gaped at it, mouth hanging open, eyes wide.

Then she turned to Fran.

"Are you doing this? This flying thing... this... pancake?"

The word is _levitating_, thought Fran, who loved big words and blamed it entirely on Mukuro's bad influence. He gave the pancake a sorrowful look. Deep down, he was quite proud of how good his illusion had turned out to be. It was better than the real thing, even if he'd created it accidentally. It was, in some mysterious way, more _realistic_ than the real thing. Even Master, despite his superiority complex, would be unable to find anything to pick on. Such a pity it couldn't be eaten. Such a pity it had to be destroyed, too, but there was no helping it. The boy's mother's gaze was becoming more and more suspicious by the minute.

He hurriedly dismissed the illusion. "Nope!" he said in his best Christmas-is-finally-here voice. "No pancakes! But I saw a flying saucer. A small one." _With maple syrup_, he added silently to himself.

The woman blinked, the eagle-like expression melting into a puzzled, uncertain look. She raised a hand to her head tentatively, as if to make sure she didn't have a fever, but adjusted her hair instead – a useless thing to do, in Fran's opinion, seeing how it was so dump from the sweat rolling down her face, that nothing short of a long shower and a hairdryer would make her look pretty again. But she was still hesitating, staring at him as if she were expecting him to offer more than he already had.

Clearly, he had to try and improve the effect.

"I saw it right here." Fran pointed at the place in the air previously occupied by the illusionary pancake. "I think it was preparing to beam me up when you came and interrupted them. Thanks a bunch."

"Thanks?"

"I wouldn't like to be experimented on," said Fran, quite honestly this time. "Everyone knows that's what aliens do." And not only them.

This seemed to work. The woman shook her head, then grabbed her son's wrist tightly and dragged him out of the alleyway and back into the big, noisy street. She glanced back once or twice, apparently checking if anyone was following her. Needless to say, no one was.

Fran looked after her and scratched the back of his head.

It was all W.W.'s fault, he concluded after a moment. If only she had had enough consideration to keep her promise and give him the meal he'd been counting on, none of this would have happened. He was going to tell Master about this. There was a sliver of hope, no matter how narrow, that he would find cruelty to innocent illusionists – like Fran, for example – completely intolerable. Of course, W.W. would try to blame it back on him and say he had got what he deserved for calling her fat, but Fran disagreed. He hadn't said anything that might warrant such an unreasonable reaction, yet she had become so furious she hurled that evil, spiky shoe at him, and that wasn't any way to demonstrate hospitality. W.W. was a such a savage under all the glitz and glamor; just like Master, which was probably the reason she liked him so much. Well, Master was way too creepy to actually count as glamorous, but there was a thin veneer of civilization – expressed mostly in long, overloaded words, like _metempsychosis_ – about him, covering his twisted self to prevent people from realizing who they were dealing with and running away in terror. Master's inner self was a sight to chill the blood of anyone who hadn't yet joined the all-too-prestigious Vindice Gentlemen's Club. Despite that fact, W.W. manifested no desire to throw things at him.

Fran found this unfair. If she could tolerate Mukuro's insanity, why was it so hard for her to be nice to _him_? Well, to feed him, at least: he didn't really care about niceness. So he'd said the dress made her look fat, but that was because it did. It was the truth. Fran couldn't see what was the point in getting mad about the truth. Most definitely, it was no reason to deny him the pleasure of eating pancakes.

Well, what was done, was done. Fran wasn't about to whine. For one thing, it was no fun to whine when no one was around to console you or even offer you a pat on the shoulder and a hanky; and besides, he was used to looking after himself. He had been doing it since forever, and not because he considered self-reliance such an important trait, but because it had become a matter of survival quite early and continued like this until Mukuro popped up out of nowhere and started bending the rules to suit his own purposes, whatever they were. Fran hadn't been very happy about it at first, but Master was like a terminal disease – he came and stayed, and you dealt with it to the best of your ability, because there was no way to get rid of him even if you tried.

Right now, his only complaint was the weather. Due to some celestial misunderstanding, during the last two weeks the city, baking under the merciless sun and filled with smog as it was, had come uncomfortably close to resembling a gas chamber. It was the type of meteorologic joke that Fran liked to call abysmal; mostly because he enjoyed the sound of the word and thought it was a shame it was used so rarely.

The only thing worse than the weather was boredom, which was the reason Fran was out in the streets instead of napping quietly back in his room in W.W.'s apartment on rue Chapon. His favorite pastime was to pester Master's faithful sidekick until she had steam coming out of her ears; but today he had carelessly blown his chances to have an entertaining evening when he commented on her weight. In the end, she had put on something that looked like an embroidered potato sack, accused him of being a dickhead and then pranced away, her nose stuck in the air, to dine out at some fancy restaurant, leaving him staring at the door as it banged shut behind her. After half an hour of wandering aimlessly around the apartment, Fran had discovered that there was nothing to eat and, more importantly, nothing to do, so he changed into his second best shirt and went out to seek fun elsewhere.

Now, however, he might as well head back. W.W. must have returned too, which meant the future no longer looked as hopelessly boring as before. Of course, sadly enough, disregarding today's fluke, even W.W. seemed to have mellowed out recently, so that Fran had to advance to ungodly levels of nastiness if he wanted to get a rise from her. Or perhaps she was just as tired as everyone else in Paris these days, it was hard to tell. But even in this rather disappointing state she was better than nothing.

Fran cast one final look around him and set off toward the noise of the bigger street. The sun was slowly crawling down toward the horizon, and it was time to leave anyway, seeing how this place was now forever tainted by memory of the embarrassing pancake incident.

No, it was probably better not to tell Master about it: he would only gloat and then launch into a long-winded monologue.

The air was still baking hot, and full of exhaust fumes and lazily rolling smog. It was the same as yesterday, or two weeks ago, but as Fran trotted out of the alleyway and into the evening streets, he suddenly found himself gripped by anticipation. It felt like a gathering storm. It was in the air, filled with electricity, as if the dusty, suffocating city had temporarily gone quiet and now waited with bated breath for the world to shift and make a new choice – the sort that would alter the course of events forever.

In all likelihood, it was just a sign that a rain might finally fall, of course; but in one moment of heat-induced foolishness, Fran wished _his_ life would change as well. He wished for a future that contained more than freeloading on an unhappy, unfriendly woman, doing nothing, going nowhere. Presumably, there were things to do, out there somewhere? Everyone kept saying the world was big, so how come there wasn't a proper place for him in it?

A minute later, as he dived into the cool, sun-free interior of the Paris Metro, Fran couldn't even understand what had come over him. Why would he want excitement? He was fine the way it was: he had food – albeit not very regularly – and shelter, and even a whole room entirely to himself, something that had for a long time seemed to be as unreachable as the planet Jupiter. He wasn't even wasting money, thanks to some mysterious orders W.W. had received from Master. It was very lucky indeed, because Fran didn't even _have_ any money. He could always steal, he supposed, but he wasn't fond of the idea. Illusions made stealing too simple a game, which in itself was quite boring; but the worst part was that it would mean having to disappear again, to become a nobody.

Fran had been a nobody since he was little, to the point where people standing within an arm's reach from him failed to notice his presence, so he knew what it felt like and didn't want to go back there. It would be nice, for a change, to let the world know he was actually there and not as an element of décor.

And it was important to remember that wishing was a dangerous activity. If you wished hard enough, you might accidentally get your prayers answered, and nothing good ever came of it. Fran had already accumulated a certain amount of personal experience which told him that an exciting life was usually a life stuffed with people who wanted to boss you around, and kicked you because they thought you deserved it, or simply because they felt like it.

No. He was going to enjoy what he had here and now and let Master do the scheming and plotting. There was no way to tell what Mukuro's twisted mind might come up with, true, but Fran didn't think it could be too bad. There was a limit to everything, including the overall quantity of bad luck in one's life, and Fran assumed he had already hit the bottom. The only possibly direction was up.

It felt good to have such a thorough plan.

-/-

M.M. yawned, putting away the magazine she'd been reading for the last forty minutes. She smiled contentedly to herself.

All in all, it had been a rather fulfilling day, despite the fact that in the afternoon she had been forced to put up with copious amounts of Fran. To think that the little prick would take it into his ugly head to lecture her on what she should wear! And in her own house, to add insult to injury. Who gave him the idea that his opinion mattered at all? M.M. sniffed derisively as her treacherous memory brought up the droning, monotonous voice of Mukuro's precious pupil, but she pushed it away immediately. She was not going to let Fran ruin such a wonderful evening.

She frowned as another thought struck her. Where _was_ Fran, by the way? His, or rather, _her_ spare bedroom stood dark and empty, door ajar, and no one was turning the kitchen upside down either, so he must have gone out for a walk. M.M. allowed herself an elegant shrug – as far as she knew, the boy had no money, so his entertainment options were severely limited. What was the point of just combing the streets, especially in this heat? Honestly, with Paris turning into a microwave oven, staying indoors was the only sensible decision, at least unless your car had air conditioning. Well, maybe Fran's brains would melt like butter and the idiot would forget the way back... She didn't really believe her luck would spread so far, but a girl could dream.

Regardless, an evening without Fran to look out for was a gift of heavens and M.M. wasn't about to waste it. She rose from the couch and headed out into the hall where she had left her newest acquisitions. She had yet to try them on properly, and now seemed to be the right moment. There was no one to interfere with her fun and offer infuriating comments, thank goodness.

She had gone on a short shopping spree – after she cooled down in her favorite beauty parlor and put Fran out of her mind, of course – and it rendered better results than even she had expected: a new pair of spike-heeled shoes of that rare color that came as close to lilac as it was possible without actually _being_ lilac. It was her favorite color. From her experience, M.M. knew how hard it was for a woman to find what she wanted if her tastes were truly refined; so she considered it an unbelievably lucky turn of events. She had also bought a white silk dress with a deep, plunging neckline that left little to imagination, which was a good thing seeing how an average man had about as much imagination as a rabbit and couldn't take a hint if his life depended on it.

M.M. sighed regrettably. There were exceptions, of course. Mukuro, for example, had a lot of imagination, which was one of the traits that made him so unique. Quite possibly, he had accidentally got his hands on all the imagination that had once been intended for the rest of the men out there. Some people might even argue that he could do with less and that having so much of it in his undivided possession was only making things worse for everyone, including himself. M.M. wondered about this sometimes, usually late at night, when it was raining outside and she couldn't sleep. Mukuro had hundreds of ideas and plans at all times, one more twisted and sophisticated than another, but somehow, the most important job of all was still undone and no one appeared to know or even dared to hazard a guess as to when it was finally going to change. In the back of her mind, M.M. sometimes allowed herself to doubt him a little. Maybe he was just so wrapped up in his grand scheme of destroying the mafia that he couldn't even concentrate on the problem of his own imprisonment? She didn't know and she never voiced her suspicions.

Waving the uncomfortable thought away, she slid into the new dress and was delighted to see it hugged her figure perfectly, emphasizing all her curves in all the right places. She had, of course, tried it on back in the _boutique_, but every woman knew that what you believed you were buying was not always what you got in the end.

She really wished Mukuro would see her now, when she looked so stunning that even he wouldn't be able to remain indifferent. Too bad it wasn't going to happen.

M.M. had payed a visit to one of the most popular bars earlier on, where she spent a refreshing couple of hours flirting shamelessly and being beautiful and manipulating men into buying her drinks – bright cocktails in tall, elegant glasses with little umbrellas sticking out – because it felt good to be the center of attention, to feel their eyes lingering on her with obvious approval, to feel desired. It did wonders for a woman's self-esteem. A bit like a therapy, only much more pleasant and rewarding.

She hadn't gone anywhere with any of them, despite the number of suggestions she had received. Mukuro really had ruined her for other men. Next to him, they all paled and faded into the background, like empty cigarette packs, which was almost frustrating since she couldn't actually get Mukuro. It annoyed M.M. when she couldn't get what she wanted. It wasn't even like she demanded it for free or something: she had spent whole _years_ waiting for Mukuro, and yet the situation seemed to have lapsed into the state of perpetual stagnation. Nothing changed, neither for better, nor for worse; and in the meantime, she had to handle Fran and amuse herself with second-rate flirting. She _had_ taken all the business cards she'd been given though. It paid to establish connections, no matter how flimsy they seemed at the moment. You never knew when you might develop an urgent need to seek advice of, say, a philatelist, or a sommelier.

She hesitated for a moment, then put her new shoes on too. Why the hell not? If she was taking all that trouble to dress up when no one was around to appreciate her efforts, she might as well go all the way. Besides, it wasn't really that taxing. The M.M. in the mirror smiled a smug smile of someone who knew she was worth her weight in gold and was proud of it.

An occasion like that needed to be celebrated. There was no cake, of course, seeing how the house was infested with Fran who would eat anything with sugar in it, but a cup of coffee, preferably with a drop of Baileys or amaretto, wouldn't be amiss. Oh yes.

She drifted into the kitchen, enjoying the feeling of being a beautiful woman with a new dress and no serious responsibilities, and took the coffee grinder from the windowsill. Where had she put the beans? Or rather, where had _Fran_ put the beans; the bastard never returned things to their appropriate places. He claimed it didn't matter where stuff was as long as it was _somewhere_. How stupid was that? M.M. wished there was a way to ban him from the kitchen, but alas, life couldn't be all fun.

She was halfway through the process, inhaling the aroma emanating from the freshly ground beans, when she heard a soft, scraping sound of the door being opened. M.M. frowned. Was it Fran coming back early? Damn him, why couldn't he stay away for a while longer. They were in Paris, for God's sake! There must be tons of things to do! Was it really so necessary to trudge back right now and ruin her evening, she thought angrily, forgetting in her sanctimonious indignation that Fran had no money to buy him any of the duly praised Parisian nightlife.

Putting down the coffe pot, she headed out into the corridor to give Fran the scolding of his life.

Only it wasn't Fran.

Two men were standing in the hallway, and as she looked at them, M.M. suddenly became aware of two things. One was that she could probably do with a more spacious apartment. A couple of guys dropped in, and already it felt as if the house was overcrowded. The second one was that she might never even get a chance to move into a new apartment, because she was toast. She swallowed and briefly considered dashing into the bedroom to get her weapon. It was a generally invigorating idea. Then her self-preservation kicked in and she discarded the plan. It's been a long time since she had last practiced, which meant her skills that, sadly enough, had never been exactly top-notch to begin with, had decreased even further. Even if they hadn't, though, one glance at the intruders sufficed to tell she wouldn't stand a chance against even one of them, much less both at the same time. M.M. might not have the intellect of Leonardo da Vinci, but she had enough experience of a certain kind to recognize a professional killer when she laid her eyes on one. Here, she had a choice of two.

The first seemed to be around the same age as Fran and sported a haircut that covered half of his face, concealing his eyes. He was wearing what looked like a crown, of all things, and was grinning, apparently very happy about something, she wasn't sure she wanted to know what. He carried no weapons, at least not where M.M. could see, but she wasn't going to take a gamble anyway. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his jacket; and there could be anything in there, like a gun, or a knife.

The second intruder was taller, and had long white hair and a face that appeared to combine a scowl and a smirk in a single expression. M.M. had never thought it was possible before. He also had a big, serious sword strapped to his left wrist, and she doubted it was there just for show. The strange sight stirred a faint, distant memory in her mind, perhaps of some long-forgotten conversation, but she didn't have any resources to spare to investigate the matter properly. The man was staring at _her_.

"Vooii! What's this? Who the fuck are you, woman?" He grinned, showing teeth that were so white and even they would make any dentist cry tears of joy. His voice, on the other hand, could drown out a jet engine. "And where the hell is the little shit?"

"Oh," said M.M. with feeling. "Crap."

* * *

A/N: the long chapter is long "faints" But at least I'm finally getting to the interesting stuff. Yay. Poor M.M., wasting so much time to look like a Barbie and getting Squalo and Bel as a reward, eh? Next chapter is going to have more action and more Fran. Isn't it great?

Please, leave me another one of these wonderful reviews! :D


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

_(in which Fran ponders the dichotomy of the world, and there's magic in the air)_

-/-

"Stop gaping at me, woman! I asked you, where's the little shit?"

"The little shit?" It was proof that M.M. was truly shocked that she didn't even feel insulted at being asked who she was in her own house. Her normal reaction if anyone else dared say something like that would be righteous outrage and immediate retribution, perhaps in the form of a well-placed kick or an accurately thrown shoe; but right now, a tiny part of her brain that was still capable of coherent thinking suggested to reign in the horses and not try anything she might end up regretting in the nearest future.

The blond guy with a crown – a tiara, supplied the fashion-oriented part of her mind – burst into a strange hissing laughter, his shoulders shaking slightly. The sound put M.M. in mind of a snake slithering through sand or dry leaves, or maybe a very strong draught. It also made him look quite unhinged, almost like he was unable to stop.

"Are you playing dumb, woman?" In a flash of movement his left hand was out of the pocket. He waved it nonchalantly, allowing the knives held between his fingers in a fan-like manner to catch light. His grin widened even further. "We're talking about Fran, of course."

"Fran?" M.M.'s mind raced. They were here because of _Fran_!

She knew full well it was far too early to feel relieved, even if it appeared that they weren't here to cut her into little pieces (perhaps they were going to cut _Fran_ into little pieces? she would offer to hold their coats if they were). Anyway, obviously, she had only two options. The first was to hand the little prick to these guys, or at least try to assist them in their noble quest, seeing how Fran wasn't exactly available at the moment; and then, she supposed, they might feel generous enough to let her go. Maybe. Maybe they would become busy with whatever it was they wanted to do with Fran – no way it could be anything pleasant – and completely forget about her. Why not? Maybe they wouldn't even give a damn about leaving a witness behind. Haha! She could just about see it happening.

The other option was, if possible, even worse. She could, theoretically speaking, stick her neck out for Fran and try to save his sorry ass – only for Mukuro's sake, of course. Maybe she could lie her way out of this predicament by saying she didn't understand who they were talking about? How did they know he was living here, by the way? How could they have found out? She certainly had never mentioned the shameful truth to anyone, and as far as she knew, Fran had no friends in Paris – nor anywhere else, because he was such an annoying little good-for-nothing, but that was beside the point – and he didn't even leave the flat too often, and when he did, it was to aimlessly roam around the city with no company except for himself (pathetic!). The only other person who was aware of the situation was Mukuro, and she couldn't even imagine why _he_ would brag about it to anyone. It was his order to keep Fran safe, after all, even if she, personally, wished he had chosen a different place for it – preferably, a dark, cold one, with very thick walls. He couldn't have been careless enough to accidentally let it slip either, because Mukuro was never careless. If anything, he was paranoid. So, how had they come to know about Fran, much less about the fact that he, to her great dismay, happened to be living here?

It occurred to her that Fran must have had a life of sorts even before he decided to tag after Mukuro. Everyone had a past, so perhaps these people belonged there. He must have stolen something valuable from them, thought M.M. with irritation. She had long since noticed that the boy had a uniquely unpleasant habit of pocketing various small items – like scissors, hairpins or out-of date discount cards, for example – that were left lying around the house and walking away with them like nobody's business. He didn't even seem to be conscious of what he was doing, and later these objects would usually turn up in unexpected places, so M.M. suspected it was either kleptomania or an old habit. It was a well-known fact that old habits died a slow, painful death, after all. She had been trying to make up her mind about how to deal with this phenomenon, but taking into account the unexpected turn of events, she might not need to bother.

Perfect. Now she only had to figure out how to stay alive. Surely, she could manage as much on her own? Looking from one intruder to the other and realizing that they were already becoming rather impatient – not a good symptom considering the sheer amount of sharp steel they had at their disposal – she quickly arrived at the inevitable conclusion. If she was forced to choose between sacrificing herself to save Fran and saving her own ass by sacrificing him, she knew whose best interests she held at heart.

Without further hesitation, M.M. plundered toward the lesser of the two available evils.

"Fran's out at the moment." _The little jerk_, she added silently. "But yes, he lives here. What do you want with him?"

"None of your fucking business!" snapped the guy with the sword, proving that even if he had any virtues, patience wasn't one of them. "What the hell do you mean, he's out?"

"He went for a walk, I suppose." M.M. pursed her lips in disapproval. Damn Fran for getting her into this _and_ wandering away at the most inappropriate moment, leaving her to deal with people who looked like they killed for money and weren't entirely averse to doing for fun either. The boy had the worst timing in the world. "He's usually back around midnight or so." She glanced at her watch with as much discretion as she could muster and was overjoyed to find out that it was already a quarter past ten. "Why don't you come in and wait for him?" she added, remembering that it might be prudent to try and be useful.

"We've come all the way from Italy to meet him, and he's not even here, Chief Commander," complained the blond guy. "It's not polite to make the prince wait." He made a majestic gesture with his hand, and the light glinted off the knives. M.M. found herself unable to tear her eyes away from them. There were hundreds upon hundreds of horrible things one could do with something like this.

"Shut it, brat, or I'll gut you," grunted his companion in the absent-minded manner that suggested that this sort of casual dialogue was normal for them. "I'm not having any more of your royal bullshit, got it?" He fixed M.M. with a piercing stare. "You'd better be telling the truth, slut. For your own fucking good."

"Because then we'll make an exception and go easy on you," supplied the knife-wielding guy and immediately broke into a new series of hissing giggles.

M.M. didn't believe a word of it. "How easy is easy?" She hadn't been Mukuro's follower for all these years for nothing, after all.

"Can't tell you, it's a surprise." He appeared to be pleased beyond measure, as if he were enjoying some private joke, which, she suspected, was exactly the case. She wondered what it was and then decided she really didn't want to know. "And if you're lying, we'll find out very soon anyway, and then you'll get the royal treatment."

"Royal?" M.M. was quite sure she had just been threatened, but the subtext remained unclear and it bothered her. Nothing could be worse than misinterpreting your enemy's words, especially if he had a weapon and you didn't.

"Oh_ yes_. From the prince here. It's a promise." His laughter made M.M.'s skin crawl. She took an involuntary step back, without realizing it. "And if–"

She never got to hear the rest of what he intended to say, as there was a flurry of sudden movement, followed by a short, dull sound. He staggered forward, hissing what seemed to be a curse in – what? Spanish? Italian? Portuguese? – under his breath. The words were too muffled for her to be sure, but now that she came to think about it, their _did_ speak French with an accent. It was barely noticeable, as if they had known the language since forever, but it was there. Somehow it seemed important, or rather, she felt like it should ring a bell and maybe tell her who they were, except that the fear she had been suppressing this whole time was slowly creeping back, robbing her of the ability to think straight. It was going to get worse, she knew. With an effort, she tried to focus on what the men in front of her were saying.

"Cut the crap!" barked the long-haired guy, letting his sword-free arm drop to his side. "I haven't brought you here for that!"

"Sheesh." The blond maniac rubbed the back of his head and winced. "That was mean, Captain Squalo, attacking like that when I was in the middle of a conversation. Where's your swordsman pride?"

"I keep it where you can't touch it, fuckface! What's up with all this shit you're spouting? It makes me sick!"

M.M. froze, rooted to the spot, the voices of her uninvited guests fading into the background for the time being, drowned out by the single name._ Squalo_. At long last, realization dawned and illuminated the terrible landscape of reality with its harsh, unforgiving light.

How could she have not recognized them at once? When had she become so careless, so brainless? It was true that she had never met any of them personally, seeing how she had gone directly back to Europe once it became clear that Mukuro wasn't getting away from the Vindice for the second time in a row; but she had heard so much from Ken and Chikusa, when they came to France to discuss the situation and plot how they would rescue Mukuro (a pathetic, unrealistic plan they had turned out to be unable to put into action in the end). They'd told her the whole story about the Ring Battles, and there had been plenty of details, too, not all of them pleasant, especially from Ken.

She should have known. The moment she laid her eyes on that tiara – how many men out there would dare to wear something like that? – and that long, white hair, and that sword, she should have known. Those things were a dead giveaway. And their accent which she now knew to be Italian, that, too, should have alerted her to the fact that she wasn't dealing with just a couple of average hitmen, nor even with a pair of low-class mafiosi from some God-forsaken Family whose members no-one ever invited to parties for fear they might eat all the canapés.

This was the Vongola.

The _Varia_.

She thought of all the things she had heard about the Varia and discovered that, despite what she had previously thought, her spirits were capable of sinking even lower. The men standing in her hallway were rumoured to be the best assassins in the whole world; they were obviously armed to their teeth, and even if they weren't, what use would it be to her? Either of them would have no trouble disposing of her if she as much as made one wrong move.

M.M. felt close to tears. Years of waiting, of biding her time, of lying low and hoping against hope that things would change for the better and Mukuro would break out of the jail and come back to her. Months upon endless months of putting up with Fran's antics! All her dreams and plans were just going to disappear in a blink of an eye, because Fran had somehow managed to invoke the wrath of the Vongola Independent Assassination Squad.

She remembered Ken saying – with quite unnecessary excitement – that the top officers of the Varia were all demons known for ripping their enemies' still beating hearts out of their chests with one hand. Well, he had actually gone as far as to claim they _ate_ those hearts afterwards, and that was when Chikusa had decided he'd had enough and told Ken to shut up. M.M. had barely participated in that conversation, too disdainful of both of them to pay attention to their words. She had listened to Ken's story with half an ear and she had put it out of her mind a second later, partly because it was insultingly gross and partly because she had been too busy feeling lonely and sorry for herself. It had never mattered to her if there was any truth to it or if it was all a product of Ken's untamed imagination. The Varia, demons or humans, had always been more or less fictional characters to her. She hadn't spared them a second thought, until now.

And now it was too late to change anything, because they were already here.

"...the hell are you still here, anyway? What do you think you are, a fucking tourist? Go and search the rooms! Move it!"

"Why should I bother? I'm not your errand-boy, Chief Commander. Do it yourself if you're so eager."

"First, I'm not the one who claims to enjoy rummaging through other people's shit, and second, someone needs to interrogate that idiot over there."

"Ahh, that's my favorite part, I'll take it."

"Keep dreaming, brat. And put your stupid knives away, or I'm going to take them from you and ram them down your throat."

"You know, you never deliver on that promise, so it's kinda hard to take it seriously..."

"Any more of this squeaking, and I'll help you reconsider. Listen, dickhead, I'm not saying it again – go and check if there's some interesting shit in there... Where's his room? Hey, woman!"

"Ah?" M.M., still too caught up in her private nightmare, looked at him with a dazed expression on her face. Then she blinked and pointed to where the door to Fran's room still stood ajar, allowing the mess that was left inside to be seen from the corridor. "That way."

"Yeah, you've heard her, Bel," said the swordsman impatiently. "Go in there and take a good look at his stuff."

"Fine." Belphegor – now that she knew who they were, she remembered his full name – appeared to have been struck by a sudden idea. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, knives disappearing from sight as if they had been nothing but a figment of her imagination. "But I get to keep what I find, Captain Squalo."

"Do whatever the hell you want, brat, as long as we don't need it to get this whole shit over with."

Belphegor giggled. "And you're going to play with the girl?" he asked in a tone that M.M. found particularly hateful. She didn't appreciate him using the word _play_ one bit, because in her experience, it never bode well for those who were on the receiving end of the fun.

Squalo rolled his eyes. "I am," he said flatly, "going to do the most important job first." In a split second, he was by her side, grabbing her by the hair and hauling her in the direction of the kitchen.

"I'm finally going to drink some fucking coffee."

-/-

Two streets away from where M.M. was entertaining guests, in a supermarket bustling with tired, overworked people, Fran was preparing to commit an evil deed.

Originally, he had planned to head straight for W.W.'s den of luxury and comfort because there he had a bed and a pillow and they were both growing increasingly attractive by the moment. However, the idea of going to sleep hungry seemed much less appealing, and, considering W.W.'s nasty personality, Fran knew better than to count on any unexpected mercy. Some things just never happened, no matter how much you wished they would.

That meant he would have to take care of his own dinner, which presented a small, but important problem: he had no money to buy food. Fran was quite familiar with this problem: after all, it must have been his loyal friend and companion since the day he was born. In fact, Fran suspected there were people living in cardboard boxes who were technically richer than him, even if didn't really make them any happier. Sometimes he wondered if there was something fundamentally wrong with him that prevented him from getting his hands on anything valuable, including money. Especially money. Other people claimed they didn't have enough of it because their job was underpaid, or their education sucked, or the government was full of thieving bastards who didn't want to share; but Fran's case was different. He would like to blame his troubles on the government as well – even a complete idiot could manage that – but deep inside, he was sure that even if all the banks suddenly opened their doors and started to give money away for free, _he_ would oversleep and turn up late to find only empty vaults and a piece of yesterday's chewing gum.

It used to upset him quite a lot, not so much because he wanted to be rich, but rather because it seemed very unfair, and, more importantly, unfair without a reason. The structure of the universe was flawed. Two years ago, though, on a dirty bench at a railway station in Marseille, he had found a forgotten book named _Become A Millionaire In Five Easy Steps_, and right there, on the very first page, in the introduction, was the answer to his unvoiced question. It was even written in a way Fran could understand.

There were people in the world, insisted the book, who didn't depend on circumstances and luck. Instead, they forced the world to revolve around them and do their bidding. They made their own luck and laid down their own rules. And, apparently because they were so unbelievably awesome and charismatic, they didn't even need to do any actual work – that was for ordinary people – instead, the money couldn't help but flow toward them of its own accord. It even made sense, Fran supposed. If you put yourself in the center and let everything orbit around you, things _would_ gravitate toward you. It was all down there in the textbook. Wasn't it amazing, he thought, that someone could just sit there, picking their teeth and being lazy, and everything would still work out to their advantage. It also explained why _he_ was as poor as a church rat. If there were guys out there who attracted money like crazy, the simple logic indicated that elsewhere, there should be other guys to balance them out – those who were poison to the money and who didn't stand a chance of becoming rich even if they were incurable workaholics, got three higher educations and possessed enough brains to win a Nobel prize. Fran knew he was one of those.

Thankfully, the nature had equipped him with a means to survive, and Fran wasn't the type to say _no_ to the food even if he wasn't the one who paid for it. The way he saw it, a stolen chicken was still a chicken, and if its terrible criminal history didn't affect its taste, why fret?

"Please, move aside, young man! You're in the way!"

"Eh?" Fran blinked owlishly until his gaze settled on a very fat middle-aged woman with a big hooked nose and an equally big purse of almost identical color. She seemed rather irritated with him for some reason. He looked around himself and realized that he was, indeed, blocking the way to the vegetable stand, and judging by the hungry, hawkish look she kept directing at the last bunch of carrots, it was in his best interests to let her through. "Sorry."

Edging to the left so the woman could finally reach the object of her desires, Fran glanced down at her purse again – only to awe at how nicely it matched the nose, nothing more – and noticed that it wasn't closed. She must have been digging in it while she waited for Fran to stop daydreaming and go away – he could see a crumpled grayish hankerchief, a pocket book in a bright cover, and a wallet–

The wallet.

Fran's eyes misted over. There was a wallet full of money – money that always seemed to elude him, much like people with a sense of humour; money that promised a big chocolate cake which he could take home and eat in front of W.W. and watch her turn green with envy because she was on a diet.

And the purse looked so welcoming, so _inviting_, with the wallet lying exactly where it was so easy for him to pluck it out. It practically begged to taken, really.

Fran sighed, closed his eyes for a moment and thought of being invisible.

This was his best trick, despite the fact that Fran wasn't too sure how it worked. It didn't actually render him invisible, of course – that would be magic, which didn't really exist – but he became hard to notice, inconspicuous, and it made people's eyes slide over him as if he weren't there. It wasn't that they were incapable of seeing him; it simply never occurred to them to look at him properly, same as no-one ever paid any attention to the shadows. They were simply there, and you took it for granted. They weren't important. As far as Fran understood, the invisibility trick made him as unimpoprtant as it was possible to become in the eyes of the world; not that it required too much effort. With a few exceptions, the world had long since added Fran to its ignore list.

Master had once tried to explain the mecanics behind the trick properly but had given up in the face of Fran's inability to grasp the fine difference between _manipulating the multiple layers of subconsciousness_ and _altering the psychological perception of the material world_, and only told him to remember that it wouldn't work on everyone.

"Some people," Mukuro had said with a hint of resignation in his voice, "can see through our illusions no matter how good they are, or how realistic. They are few, but they do exist. Keep it in mind that if you encounter one of them, your abilities will be useless."

"So what should I do then?" Fran had asked, more out of respect for Master than out of any real interest. He had never met anyone who would turn out to be impervious to his illusions and suspected that Mukuro was simply trying to scare him, although he had no idea why.

"I recommend escaping to safety," Master had replied haughtily. "If you survive you can always devise a better plan, and in the end, a knife – or, in my case, a trident – through the heart works on absolutely everyone, I dare say."

Well. Fran gave a mental shrug. Illusion-proof guys sounded pretty cheesy. He doubted he would ever get an opportunity to look them in the eye. even if they weren't entirely fictional. Master had the weirdest ideas sometimes, so maybe that was one of them. Fran had been using the invisibility trick for years and so far, it had proven to be more reliable than any other weapon, illusionary or not, that the humankind had managed to come up with. It also came as easy and natural as breathing to him, which could hardly be said about anything else. Fran wasn't good at any activities that required psysical strength or dexterity or the ability to stand his ground when someone was hacking at him with an axe, and he was aware of the fact. He had no talent for these things, so it made sense that he should stick to what he did best instead.

Right now, for example, it was going to help him secure his much-awaited dinner.

He opened his eyes again and felt the world go dim, colors leaking out of everything, sounds fading into distant echoes, as if coming from afar, all movement slowing down to a crawl. He knew this impression to be deceiving, as the reality was exactly the opposite: _he_ faded while the rest of the world went on about its business, same as it always did. A small part of him found this rather unsettling – it wasn't too flattering to realize that for those around you, your existence held as much meaning as a loaf of stale bread – but the brain hinted that it was actually nothing to write home about and not any sort of unique experience at all, because the very same thing happened when you died, and everyone managed _that_ eventually.

Wrapped in the illusion, Fran took a step forward. It seemed to last for a small eternity, like moving through the water, except that there was no pressure. He extended an arm and reached for the fat woman's purse. As he had expected, she remained oblivious to what was going on right behind her back, and didn't even pause in her carrot-shuffling, when his fingers closed around her wallet and pulled it out. It wasn't very heavy, but it didn't appear to be empty either.

Fran put it into his own pocket and turned to leave, taking care not to dismiss the illusion too soon. It would be quite embarassing if the sight of his retreating back gave her any unnecessary suspicions or prompted her to check her precious possessions. As he rounded the corner and headed for the exit, he let the world resume its usual pace and gave a sigh of relief. He loved this trick for its usefulness, but it was way too creepy, and if he tried to keep it up for long, he began to feel as if he weren't entirely alive.

Briefly, he wondered what Master might say on the subject. Quite probably, he would find the idea laughable (and that was putting it mildly), seeing how his own repertoire of useful tricks included things that made Fran's little stunt seem as harmless and innocent as a walk in the park.

He didn't stop to explore the contents of the wallet until he was out on the street again and walking toward W.W.'s house. The red-nosed woman might not have seen him steal it, but who knew whether the cameras had recorded it or not. Master had once mentioned that really good illusions could fool machinery as well as people, but Fran was always a little hazy about Master's standards. There was no telling if his _good_ was the same as Fran's, and it might not be the most clever idea to take chances.

When the supermarket was safely hidden beyond the horizon, Fran extracted the wallet and opened it. Inside, there were about two dozens of discount cards which Fran decided he would inspect later in the evening and some cash. Not much, unfortunately, but it could be worse. At least there was enough to buy a cake and a Coke. A big cake that he wouldn't share with W.W. even if she cried and begged him.

The image of a tearful W.W. cheered Fran up quite a bit. Besides, it was a challenge. W.W. could hardly be called soppy, which in itself was unsurprising, as Mukuro had deemed her worthy of his attention, after all, and he didn't like to side with soppy people, the only notable exception being the Chrome girl (Fran had never met the Chrome girl, but he'd heard a lot about her from W.W. and none of it was nice). So far, he had yet to succeed in making Master's sidekick cry, but he supposed he could allow himself to have another go. Hopefully she wouldn't have any pointy shoes within an arm's reach this time around, though. Those certainly were a danger.

A slightly lopsided smile appeared on Fran's face. He was in for an interesting evening. He couldn't wait to get back.

-/-

Belphegor was having less fun than he had expected.

He was standing in the middle of the room that, according to the fidgety woman that Squalo seemed to reserve for himself, belonged to the Varia's future illusionist. There was nothing impressive about the place. It wasn't big, although it didn't exactly resemble a closet either, and it had an extremely boring view. Bel poked his head out of the window and saw a bunch of shabby-looking trees, a couple of blue wooden benches covered with uninteresting people, and a_ crêperie_ across the street. Just in case, he scanned the horizon for the Eiffel tower, found no sign of it, and was disappointed.

Bel had visited Paris on numerous occasions, both on business and for fun – mostly for fun – and developed the firm belief that one should always be able to see the Eiffel tower; if not, it wasn't really Paris. He had even shared this theory with Levi because he had deemed the man capable of understanding (a rare mistake), but apparently, Levi's brains were ill-suited for such concepts, or, come to think about it, for anything that didn't feature him proving his eternal loyalty to the boss.

Turning away from the window with an air of finality, Belphegor gave the room an evaluating look.

The general impression was that of place that used to be nice and elegant at some distant point in the past, but had had the misfortune of ending up with an owner who thought cleaning was something that only ever happened to other people. Bel, who had never in his life had anything to do with cleaning until one day Squalo came along and forced him, sympathized with that, although he couldn't help noticing the sharp contrast between this room and the rest of the apartment. It was akin to witnessing two different worlds collide and merge together in a rather unnatural symbiosis.

There was an unmade bed, with rumpled sheets and a pillow that looked more like it had been chewed and drooled on than anything else; a wardrobe with a pair of rather dirty boots _on top_ of it; and a desk that appeared to have been unused for months, so thick was the layer of dust that covered its surface. Without thinking twice, Bel reached down and wrote a rude word with his finger. Then he added another one, just for the sheer pleasure it gave him. Having thus marked the territory as his own, he appraised the rest of the furnishings and found nothing interesting about it. A photograph of a kitten poking out of a basket and a half-wilted potted plant that Bel didn't know the name of failed to liven up the atmosphere; a tremendously huge heap of clothes occupied the arm-chair on the right side of the room; while the floor on the left was adorned by a pile of newspapers and magazines, all of them ancient enough to be considered a relic of the long-forgotten past, at least by the newspaper standards.

Bel squatted down and peeked under the bed only to find more dust as well as several socks he decided not to examine closer. He straightened up again and pulled a disgusted grimace. What an unsightly place. Even apart from the fact that it was so awfully unoriginal, and only fit to accommodate commoners, and apparently belonged to a guy who treated his absolute lack of imagination as a religion, where was, well, everything? Not literally everything, of course, but all those little things that defined a person and made them stand out from the rest of the lemmings that inhabited the world. Photos, souvenirs, favorite books and other paraphernalia – where was it all? Obviously, the picture of the kitten on the wall didn't count. Bel was prepared to bet his second most precious possession – his title – on the fact that the fidgety girl had hung it there. Women and kittens went together, it was one of the iron-clad laws of the universe.

Dismissing the kitten, Bel rotated on the spot, eyes x-raying the room in a vain hope to locate some tale-telling item, something that would transfer the sole inhabitant of this hovel from the astral plane of shapeless ideas into the physical world where he, Belphegor, could make his life miserable in all sorts of interesting ways.

There was nothing.

Bel scowled. No way he was going to work with a guy who had less personality than a teaspoon. He hadn't waited for months to get landed with a partner he couldn't have any fun with. It didn't really matter what _kind_ of person this new illusionist was, as long as he had some entertainment value. Otherwise, what was the point, they might as well order another Gola Mosca and be done with it. Bel had never liked the first Gola Mosca either, and he was sure that a new version would be no better. A Mosca was impossible to boss around, never failed at anything, and knives bounced off it without leaving as much as a scratch and ricochetted in unpredictable directions.

Well, there was bound to be something, at the very least. A document of some sort – everyone had one of those, didn't they? It must be hidden somewhere. Belphegor smirked arrogantly. Perhaps it wouldn't be as entertaining as a proper game of hide-and-seek – with real victims, panic-stricken and shaking in fear, and him taunting them and then using his favorite weapons to skewer them while they were still alive and conscious of what was about to happen – but he was still going to make the best of it. Searching for clues and useful blackmail materials was quite interesting as well.

He rubbed his hands together happily.

There was absolutely nothing an extraordinary genius like him couldn't find.

* * *

N/A: Well. I wanted to give Fran more personality before I shoved him into the Varia; hopefully I managed that; and also, I wanted to write more M.M. because we're going to leave her behind pretty soon. Good riddance! And oh yes - why isn't Belphegor going_ ushishishi_ all the time? That's a valid question, I agree. The answer is, I considered it and decided it felt way too weird _writing_ it, you know. It's great when you hear it in the anime, but a text is a different story.:)

On the side note, this thing is going to be the size of _Peace and War_, I swear... I've written so much I can't possibly cram it all into one chapter - if I make them too long, I stop noticing my own grammar errors, and it annoys me. So, the next chapter is probably going to be up quite soon, seeing how most of it is already finished.

Thank you all for your patience, and please leave me a review! As usual, I'd love to know what you think.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

_(in which Squalo is not amused, Belphegor finally gets to play, and a cake goes missing)_

-/-

"So," said Squalo in a matter-of-fact tone of someone who had been dealing with idiots all his life and had no illusions about the humankind. "Let's have a little chat, shall we?" He unceremoniously dumped the girl on the floor and watched her scramble to her feet, not offering to help.

"Ugh..." She brushed the non-existent dirt off her dress and tried to glare up at him. "I thought you were going to make coffee."

"Not really." Squalo remained unimpressed by her futile efforts to appear taller than she really was. He'd seen it a million times and knew there was only one certain way to cure the patient. It was called decapitation. "_I_ am going to drink the damn thing. _You_ are going to make it. Fucking get to work."

"But–!"

"But me no buts, you little slut."

She seemed to be about to protest, but apparently thought better of it and turned to the coffee pot instead. She did mutter something that sounded suspiciously like she was wishing the earth would open up and swallow him, though. Not that Squalo cared if he had somehow hurt her feelings, of course; that was her problem and she was invited to deal with it however the hell she wanted. In his line of work, if he started worrying about other people's feelings or some other soppy shit like this, he would never be able to stop. Besides, he hadn't yet made up his mind whether he would kill her or not. It all depended, he supposed, on how it would go with Fran. If the brat demonstrated he had enough brains to come quietly, that was one thing. If not, however... And, of course, he would most certainly squash her like a bug if his coffee tasted like shit. That went without saying.

"And don't you dare to fuck it up, bitch!" he barked at her back, because he had found out years ago that if you were surrounded by complete morons it was better to give them an encouraging kick right from the start, or else they'd never get off their asses.

The girl said nothing, nor did she turn around, but the coffee pot in her hands shook slightly and her knuckles turned white. Inwardly, Squalo congratulated himself on making a good enough impression.

As he settled into a chair, he wondered if he had somehow been transported into a bad movie; possibly, one of those highly conceptual, surrealistic cinematographic _chefs-d'oeuvre_ that never made a lick of sense to a normal human being. Squalo – who generally preferred historical movies with lots of fighting in them, or could go for _The Saw,_ if he was really pissed off – frowned, as he tried to work out what was going on. He hated it when things got out of hand so early on, and he especially despised being misinformed: surprises didn't rank high in Squalo's personal book. Being misinformed by Mammon who was safely dead and out of reach, and therefore couldn't be kicked for this shit or reprimanded in any other way only made the matters worse. Now it was almost a personal insult.

He glared at the woman. She was still standing with her back to him, which, in fact, had been his idea when he chose this particular chair, because it gave him an advantage of seeing everything she did, while simultaneously preventing her from keeping track of his actions; but for some reason, he was nevertheless getting very annoyed. Why the hell was it taking her so damn long, anyway? Surely even a complete imbecile could make a cup of coffee.

"Hey, you!" he snarled, and the woman gave a start and nearly dropped the coffee pot. "Get a fucking grip! And hurry up already, I don't have all night."

"It will be ready it a minute." She started to turn around to face him, and Squalo growled warningly.

The girl froze, then returned her attention to the coffee again. Squalo scowled, still quite unhappy. He was wasting time, which in itself was pretty upsetting seeing how there was no end to the shit he had to do back in Italy, but even putting that aside, could he really be sure he'd got the right place? Yes, the slut had confirmed that Fran lived here, but now that Squalo had had a moment to take in his surroundings, he even began to doubt it was the right Fran.

What he had gathered from the brat's file, coupled with his uninspiring photograph, had led Squalo to expect a slightly different type of lodgings. It suggested a filthy hovel, with paper peeling off the walls, dirty dishes piled in a heap in the kitchen sink, and a hungry, flea-ridden cat shitting in the corners; or a nearly empty brick box complete with a matress, a three-legged chair and a wardrobe nailed together by someone who had already been dead for a while by the time the Parisians decided they could do with fewer prisons in the city and stormed the Bastille. He had prepared to face the stinky realm of filth, decay and neglect, along with its disgusting denizens, all of them, including Fran, drunk or doped up or simply incoherent – and was more than a little disconcerted by the sight that unfolded before his eyes.

For one thing, the place was clean. Especially the kitchen, which was sparkly, squeaky clean, as if Lussuria had paid a friendly visit with a mop, a brush and a vacuum cleaner _and_ stayed for tea to discuss further arrangements afterwards. It was also too posh and too girly. Squalo wasn't really the type to pay attention to the patterns on the carpets when he visited someone, and if he went to see a woman he was usually too busy doing other, more interesting things to notice anything that wasn't an open threat to his life. Like most assassins – or at least like all the assassins who were good at their job – Squalo had long since developed a selective vision that enabled him to percieve any danger within a half-a-mile radius and quickly come up with a dozen ways to solve the problem, while at the same time mercifully sparing him the disgusting details of what was often happening around him. It was a protective mechanism and a great blessing at the same time, because Squalo knew very well that if he allowed himself to concentrate for as long as fifteen minutes on some of the things that people did, he'd have to kill them all immediately. For example, it was completely impossible for anyone even remotely sane to watch Belphegor drag himself sluggishly through the day and not want to snap his neck. Belphegor was possibly one of the most annoying beings in the world. The only way was to skip over it as if it didn't exist. If it meant that worthless crap like the amount of lace on the curtains escaped his notice as well, so be it.

Squalo sometimes asked himself if that was the source of their stupid boss's usual state of barely contained rage which he inefficiently covered by a seemingly impassive attitude. Perhaps Xanxus was simply so focused on _not_ seeing any of them that he had nothing to say. Perhaps they infuriated him so much he had to constantly control himself so as not to set them all on fire. It felt weird to think of Xanxus making allowances, but even he was bound to understand that the Varia was more than just one person, no matter how powerful.

Or maybe the boss just did whatever the hell he wanted and never gave a damn, expecting the rest of the universe to acknowledge how special he was and rearrange itself to accommodate his ambitions. Xanxus was a bastard like that.

Squalo snorted at the thought and refocused on the task at hand. Something fishy was going on. Even through the prism of his deeply-ingrained habit of seeing things as either targets or weapons, it was obvious to him that the fucking apartment on rue Chapon couldn't possibly belong to a guy like Fran, or to any man at all, for that matter, unless it was a man of Lussuria's persuasion, which, Squalo hoped like hell, wasn't the case. He barely had it in him to put up with the presence of one faggot; two would definitely be overkill. He would have to either slaughter them or move out of the hideout, and he knew which one he would prefer.

From his strategically chosen vantage point in the corner, Squalo had an excellent view not only of the kitchen and the hallway, but also of the interior of one of the rooms, because the door was left wide open, lights switched on, providing an opportunity to enjoy the sight of a fluffy creamy-coloured carpet, a big, comfortable couch with a number of bright, cheerful pillows scattered all over it, and lilac curtains on the window. The curtains had a flowery design. There were little porcelain figurines here and there, which only ever appeared if a woman invaded the space, and framed photographs, and shitty pictures of something vaguely pacifying. There was bound to be one with cute little kittens somewhere, thought Squalo dejectedly. Kittens playing with a ball of wool, or poking out of a shoe, or something equally saccharine. Every woman had one of those. Even thinking about it gave Squalo a toothache.

He couldn't even begin to fathom what was so wonderful about babies and small animals that women found it necessary to squeal and croon over them. The way he saw it, they were clumsy and annoying and often whiny, not to mention useless. A big, serious dog could rip someone's throat out – Squalo respected that, and so did everyone else if they knew what was good for them – but a puppy just got in the way. As far as kittens were concerned, Squalo believed that he had already had his share with Bester, who was probably the biggest, crankiest kitten the world had ever seen. Nobody who had had the luck to meet Bester would be able to find cats adorable afterwards. If the fucking liger as much as pawed you, it was like being hit by a truckload of bricks.

Giving his immediate surroundings one final look, Squalo had to admit, no matter how reluctantly, that while he, personally, was more into high-tech, and prefered somber colours, and didn't want anything to do with kittens or flowers, the apartment still looked nice; in a female sort of way, of course. A little suffocating in its unbearable cuteness, but okay to visit, provided you took care not to let your gaze linger on anything for too long. At least there was no pink to be seen.

Sometimes one had to take comfort in small things. Inwardly, Squalo cursed the deceased Arcobaleno to the hell and back again.

-/-

This cake was bound to be good, Fran knew. He hadn't yet opened the box, but he had spent twenty three minutes – he knew because he'd checked – choosing the thing before he finally decided to open the stolen wallet and say goodbye to its contents. It had been a sad farewell, because, taking into account his financial luck, who could say when he would next have an opportunity to actually _buy_ stuff? Still, the cake was worth its weight in gold, figuratively speaking. It was big, and dripping with chocolate – mostly due to the summer heat – and full of cream, and had a cherry on top (Fran had specifically insisted that he needed a cherry; he'd always dreamed he would one day eat a cherry-topped cake). It was pleasantly heavy.

Fran gave a happy sigh. He felt like a tired traveller seeing the long-awaited train appear from beyond the horizon, all flashes of light and speed and noise. The glorious moment of his revenge on W.W. was approaching, and even thinking about how he would finally get back at her gave Fran a warm, fuzzy feeling which he rarely had a chance to experience.

He wasn't exactly sure why he wanted to spite Master's loyal sidekick so much – well, starving him was part of the deal, of course, but it wasn't the real reason. The real reason lay hidden in the obscure place between the profound social (and financial) abyss separating them and her impossible _loudness_. Fran would probably find himself at a loss if someone asked him to explain the last part – because how could you explain something like this? – but the truth still remained: W.W. was loud in more ways than one; everything about her, from head to toe, announced, and stated, and declared one thing or another. She was so awfully full of herself that even when she was silent her presence was still tiring, and sometimes Fran found himself wishing she would just yell at him to get it – whatever _it_ was – over with.

Fran scratched his nose and peered up at the windows of W.W.'s apartment. Well, he couldn't see all of them from here – only the big one in W.W.'s room. The kitchen and Fran's own temporary abode gave onto the other side, so he would have to go around the house if he wanted to look at them. He couldn't decide if he did. In fact, Fran couldn't even understand why he was still perched on a rather uncomfortable bench in front of the entrance instead of going in and eating the cake as he had previously planned to. It was very strange. Absent-mindedly, he pulled at the edge of his shirt – his second-best shirt which had a smiling cartoonish penguin printed on the front – and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.

Something felt wrong, that was why. Fran had no clue whatsoever as to what it was, but something seemed to be... out of place. Weird. Messed up. Something had happened or was happening, or at least that was what his intuition kept telling him. Too bad his intuition couldn't be bothered to supply any details.

Irritably, Fran kicked the empty cigarette pack that was lying quite peacefully on the ground where its previous owner had left it. Master was very big on the whole intuition thing. It was such a recurring theme during their dreamworld meetings – or should he call them lessons? he could never say where conversations ended and lectures began with Mukuro – that Fran sometimes wished there was more to the job than guesswork and imagintation. He even had once or twice voiced this opinion in front of Master and was punished quite severely for the lack of proper mindset. Master never got tired of reiterating that intuition was one of the most important things for an illusionist and as such, should never be ignored. The ability to wield one's intuition as a weapon, according to Mukuro, was a crucial factor and might very well determine if the illusionist in question was going to live to see another day. Fran had never really thought to disagree – he knew it was useful to listen to that little disembodied voice whispering inside his skull as it could sometimes provide a piece of helpful, if vague, advice or serve as an alarm signal, much like it was doing now. Still, he couldn't figure out what was wrong. This uneasy feeling usually visited him when he was about to have a run-in with the police or a gang of thugs or something equally unpleasant.

Unpleasant, but obvious, though. Fran knew it was prudent to avoid the police since he'd had crossed more than a few borders without any legal documents, and authorities everywhere frowned upon such behavior; and no one in their right mind would want to meet street thugs – it was extremely risky and promised to raise health issues. Those were good, solid reasons to become anxious and follow the commands your intuition tried to give you, and Fran had always been able to recognize the moment when fleeing was the only option.

Now, however, he was getting quite confused. Rue Chapon appered to be no different, quietly bubbling with its daily routine, with its usual evening activities; and no one suspicious was anywhere in sight. The house was the same, and the cars parked here and there were exactly the same good old cars he'd got accustomed to seeing every day. He strained his ears and heard nothing out of ordinary. For a moment, he thought he had seen something move out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned to look closer it appered to be a flock of pigeons taking flight off the roof of the nearby house. Fran shrugged with relief. Pigeons were alright. Everywhere had pigeons.

He glanced down at the cake in his hands and shrugged again, than got to his feet. There was no point in sitting outside any longer, especially when he had so much to look forward to. The uneasiness must be a by-product of the fatigue and, even more important, starvation – the problem he was going to solve with this very cake in a couple of minutes.

In a couple of minutes, he told himself cheerfully, he would finally get a chance to gloat, and this time he wouldn't miss it.

-/-

The trees grew thick near the old houses, and Belphegor made no sound as he dropped down from the roof to a balcony, and then further down to the ground, graceful and near-insubstantial, a slightly darker shadow among other shadows. He straightened up and stood motionless for a moment as he watched the door close behind the little punk, as Squalo would undoubtedly call him.

He had recognized the guy as soon as he laid his eyes on him – it was weird how a person with a hair-color that outrageous looked so blank and unnoticeable, but nothing could hide from the Prince – and wasn't sure what he thought about him, yet. It didn't matter, of course, he would have plenty of time to make up his mind. There was no need to rush. It was quite curious that he had found nothing worth mentioning in his room, though. No documents, no photos, not a single personal item. Not even a souvenir keychain or something stupid like this. It was as if the boy didn't actually exist, so insignificant was the impact he made on the world.

Without even looking, Bel plucked a knife out of the dead pigeon he was holding in his left hand. This particular pigeon had had the misfortune of being too close to the Varia assassin when the latter had decided to get down from the roof, and the fact had sealed its fate – by tragically shortening its lifespan. The other pigeons could still be seen circling in the sky as if unsure of what they should do now that their usual resting place was so obviously unsafe.

_Fucking chickens_, thought Belphegor, letting the dead bird fall from his hand, uncaring of the blood on his fingers, _I might have been found out. _He put the knife away, but not too far. Unless he was mistaken, which he wasn't, quite soon he'd be needing it.

He waited for a few more seconds before heading for the entrance as well. Few things pleased him more than the terrified look on the faces of his victims when they realized he was breathing down their necks and there was no escape.

-/-

"Milk? Sugar?"

Squalo, who was still longingly thinking about the many horrible things he, unfortunately, would never be able to inflict on Mammon, returned to reality.

"No fucking milk!" he ordered, then considered the hypothetical proportions of the oncoming headache and added. "Lots of sugar, woman." Another thought floated up. He sneered at her back. "And don't you dare to try and pull some shitty little stunt, got it? Unless you keep an extra head hidden somewhere, that is."

She jerked her shoulders with what appeared to be thinly veiled exasperation. "I'm not going to poison you, just so you know."

"Too damn right, you're not," replied Squalo flatly. "The moment I see anything I don't like, I'll cleave you in half. We'll see how fucking long you can live after that."

"Ugh. I mean I have no reason to do anything like this." She stepped away from the counter and put a big mug of coffee on the table in front of him. Squalo sniffed suspiciously. It smelled quite appealing _and_ harmless. Arsenic-free, hopefully.

"Oh really?" he sais snidely. "So you don't mind if we stay for the weekend?" Squalo believed that it was his victims' job to be quiet and afraid, and didn't appreaciate the backtalk. "And don't even_ think_ about it, bimbo," he said menacingly, and she froze, half-way from the door. "You're going to sit by the window like a good girl, so we can play questions and answers." He bared his teeth in a smile that would put alligators to shame if they saw it. "I'm gonna do all the hard work, as usual, and come up with the fucking questions. You just have to tell me every damn thing you know. Simple as hell."

"Why– " She cut short abruptly, apparently realizing it wasn't too sensible to argue. "Sure. Alright. Fire away."

_Fire_ wasn't the word Squalo wanted to hear at the moment, since it reminded him of his stupid boss and all the wonderful crap he was going to have to go through if the outcome wasn't to Xanxus' liking. And long, long years of bitter experience told Squalo that very few things were ever to Xanxus' liking.

He grabbed his coffee mug and fixed the woman with a murderous glare, wishing he could forego all this pathetic semblance of an investigation and just chop her head off to vent out; despite the fact that she had nothing to do with how much of a bastard Xanxus happened to be. Still, even disregarding that, everything felt so fucking wrong about this situation, starting with the little bitch herself, and he was going to get to the bottom of it, one way or another. Seeping his coffee, Squalo peered at the girl closely, and for the briefest of moments he had a nagging suspicion he had already met her in the past or at the very least had seen her face – it seemed vaguely familiar – but he couldn't remember when or where, so perhaps it was just a unexpected case of deja vu; or maybe she simply resembled one of the many women that occasionally entered his life late in the evening only to be booted out in the morning in what Squalo himself considered to be a healthy, business-like manner and everyone else, including the aforementioned women, defined as barbaric rudeness, not that he cared about their worthless opinions. He never bothered to memorize their names or faces, which had once prompted Lussuria to remark that if he continued this way, he'd never get anywhere with his personal life. Squalo had asked the faggot to kindly fuck off, because he couldn't see what it had to do with anything: he believed that personal life was called _personal_ for a reason, and the reason was that you reserved it for yourself and no one else. If you let someone invade it – with pictures of kittens, God forbid – it ceased to be a personal affair and became a freaking circus. A traveling circus, if you were stupid enough to let it go too far.

He examined the girl again and decided it wasn't important. If they had truly met, surely _she_ would have recognized _him_ by that moment. How many swordsmen could she have possibly encountered in her boring little life, thought Squalo with the typical arrogance of those who had already realized they were special but had yet to see how much it annoyed other people.

"Fine," he said finally, lapsing into a condescending tone of an emperor agreeing to talk to a lowly peasant. "I take it this shithole belongs to you?"

"This _shi–_ yes, it does." She pursed her lips disapprovingly, but refrained from commenting, which was good, because Squalo despised useless prattle with every fibre of his soul, and he definitely wasn't in the mood to put up with it now. Not even though the headache seemed to be receding.

"What about the brat then? Is he your brother or something?"

"Fran, you mean? Of course not. He's nobody." Her words had an odd ring to them, an echo of some unvoiced resentment trying to wriggle its way out from under the metaphoric rock, but instead of explaining herself, she fell silent again and began to examine her nails.

This, thought Squalo, was the worst part about any interrogation. _No one_ ever wanted to talk, not even if after he made it crystal-fucking-clear that being uncooperative might mean that by the end of the conversation there would be fewer bodyparts still atttached and functioning. It was the sort of work that required patience and the ability to refrain from spilling the victim's guts on the floor, at least until all the necessary information was obtained. And what made it worse, it wasn't just civilians like the little bitch, back home there was no shortage of mafiosi who tried to play cool when in reality all they had to back up their swagger was the absolute lack of brains.

Squalo gritted his teeth.

"Fucking elaborate."

Frowning, he tried to reshape the already blurred image of Fran that had formed in his mind after he read the file and superimpose it on the posh chick sitting across the table from him, and gave up in frustration. No chance he could ever get them to meet anywhere. The mere idea of a cockroach like Fran and this Barbie-doll coexisting peacefully on the same square mile flew in the face of everything that was right in the world.

He glanced down at her fancy dress, which was actually too short to even be considered a dress, and another possibility occurred to him.

"Or do you keep him around because he fucks you, eh, slut?"

This had the most curious effect. The chick froze, mouth agape, like a fish out of the water, eyes wide, staring at him in what seemed to be horrified indignation. Her face reddened. She closed her mouth, then opened it again and took a deep breath. Then she regained her speech, and a moment later he wished she hadn't.

"_What!_ Him! And me? With him! Absolutely not! Never! He's a total stranger!" Anger made her voice so high-pitched and shrill that Squalo immediately felt the headache slam happily back into place.

He winced. Enough was enough. "Who the hell do you take me for, a fucking idiot?" He barked, swinging his sword in her direction in a way that suggested that no more backchat would be tolerated. She shut up, but Squalo went on regardless. "You expect me to buy this shit? You expect me to believe that a bitch like you would let a _total stranger_ in like nobody's business? No fucking way you're serious about that. Listen now, if you don't–"

"I'm not lying! I let him in because an old... friend of mine asked me to! I couldn't refuse. I never wanted him here!" Her voice took on a strange tone, a curious mix of anger, discontent and... sadness? Oddly enough, there was no fear – or rather, it was present, naturally, but seemed to be a little too controlled for an ordinary person, for an ignorant outsider who didn't know a thing about the mafia and its methods. Where were the shrieking, and finger-pointing, and _I'll call the police,_ and other laughable things civilians resorted to when they suddenly found their cozy little world crumbling down around them? It was as if the girl knew exactly what she was facing and was now trying to stand her ground without actually provoking an attack. Fucking strange, that. Smart, of course, but strange. Perhaps, he was a bit too hasty to think coming here had been a mistake. Who could say, by now?

Squalo pinched the bridge of his nose and supressed the urge to start chopping things into little pieces. The more time he spent in the damn flat, in that damn city, the more complicated the situation became. Now even the bimbo was beginning to look suspicious, and the Mist brat had sprouted some caring friends as well as a shitload of personal history which Squalo had no desire to learn about. And none of it had beeen in the bloody file._ Screw you, Mammon_, he thought in helpless frustration, _your fucking archive is full of holes_. Well, what else did he expect, really, considering that the thing was almost half a year past its consumption date, so to speak.

He finished what still remained of his coffee – it tasted like the essence of bitterness mixed with a barrelful of sugar, which, in Squalo's opinion, meant it tasted like shit – and fixed the girl with an angry glare. What the hell, eh? He could keep up the Q&A session, as was the bloody tradition, or he could try and look for a shortcut, because there always was one.

Squalo put the empty mug down on the table. The shortcut.

"Hey, deario," he said. "Tell you what. I'm getting a bit fed up with your chitchat here, you know? So here's what we're gonna do. You get your fat ass off this chair – _now_! – and go and call the Fran guy. Tell him to come back to his home-sweet-home. Tell him you're dying to look into his eyes. Or that his grandpa kicked the bucket and left behind a fortune. Whatever. But I want the brat here. Got it?"

"That I'm dying to– Eh, it's not going to work. I'm sorry." She licked her lips nervously but didn't avert her eyes. Squalo could almost admire that. Almost.

"No?" he said, feeling his left eyebrow start to twitch. "It's not? It's fucking not?"

"Listen, I'd like to do it, I really would, I'm not an idiot, but I can't–"

"Do I look like I give a shit?"

"– because he doesn't have a mobile phone."

Squalo paused. He couldn't believe his ears. The brat didn't have a phone? In Paris? In the twenty first fucking century? Well, maybe, he had misunderstood. There was just no way such a dinosaur existed for real.

"He left it here or what? And who the hell goes out without their phone, anyway? Just how brainless is he?"

M.M. pursed her lips disapprovingly. "He didn't forget. He doesn't_ have_ a mobile phone, like I told you. At all."

"What!"

"Well, what do you expect?" she snapped suddenly, getting rather red in the face. Squalo was perplexed to realize she was actually fuming. "He's been around for more than half a year now, and he eats more than a hungry pig, and intrudes on my personal space, and gets on my nerves _all the tim_e, and he's not even paying for anything! I'm not buying him a phone on top of everything else!"

"You gotta be kidding me," said Squalo, finally beginning to appreciate the scale of the problem at hand. It was amazing, the shit your learned if only you cared to talk to someone for half a minute. Maybe he should remember that. "You mean, the little piece of crap is freeloading off of you?"

"Yes!"

"Not working or anything?"

"No!"

"Ah." Squalo believed he could understand why she had seemed so eager to tell him about Fran. "Fine. The two of you here are so nuts it–" He cut short abruptly, as there was a muffled noise from the direction of the front door. The hurried footsteps, no, someone _running_, the unmistakable frantic rhythm of panic impossible to overlook, then a key being hastily inserted into the keyhole and turned. The door itself being pushed open.

It occurred to Squalo that Belphegor hadn't manifested any signs of life for a while now. He knew what it meant and swore under his breath. For the brat's own good, he hoped there was no lasting damage. Well, whatever. The shit was finally about to come to a logical conclusion. He couldn't fucking wait.

Squalo grinned, for the lack of a better term. There was no mirth in it.

-/-

W.W.'s house was old, dating back to who knew when, and although it had, during its long and eventful life, suffered a couple of reconstructions and renovations, they were all cosmetic, so to speak, and mainly focused on preventing it from collapsing in a heap of dust and concrete. You couldn't just go around and mess with the cultural heritage, after all. You could only add to it, when and where it was appropriate.

On the whole, Fran had nothing against it. Quite the contrary, in fact: the long history of the house, its continuous presence in the lives of people inhabiting the area, were the things he, a person with no past or present, could admire. What he didn't find so admirable, at least at the moment, was the fact that due to its deeply-respected historical status and extreme old age, the house had only one elevator which was big, and slow, and capricious and seemed to function according to some mysterious schedule no one had ever seen in print. And W.W. lived on the fourth floor.

Fran waited and listened for the sounds of the old mechanism coming back to life. There were none. He sighed. He was very, very tired, and the cake was getting increasingly heavy by the minute. The pillow never seemed further away.

The door behind Fran squeaked plaintively as it turned on its hinges, admitting someone into the cool semi-darkness of the elevator hall. Then he heard the door click shut again, but there were no footsteps, only the silence, rushing in like a tide, profound and expectant. The world seemed to hold its breath. The hairs on the back of Fran's neck prickled. With a sinking feeling he wasn't going to like what he was about to see, he looked around.

A lone figure was standing by the now closed door; a young man. He wasn't tall, or particularly imposing, or rippling with muscle. He wasn't doing anything threatening either; he wasn't even moving. His clothes were dark, but not in the impressive midnight-black sense of the word, and he held his hands in the pockets of his unbuttoned coat.

_Isn't it a bit too hot to be wearing this thing_, thought Fran, and was vaguely horrified to realize how painfully sluggish his mind had suddenly become, that it was refusing to string words into sentences, to formulate the simplest ideas. He stood rooted to the spot and watched the newcomer tilt his head to one side. In the shadows it was impossible to see clearly, but somehow Fran was absolutely sure the bastard was smiling. It was an instinctive kind of knowledge and it didn't make him feel any better. Also, now he knew for sure what his intuition had been trying to tell him and wished he had paid more attention to its words of caution.

The stranger took his right hand out of the pocket and waved. Metal glinted dully between his fingers.

"Hello!"

Fran couldn't say if it was the wheather finally getting the better of him or some other fluke, but the air seemed to have gone thick and dense, like syrup, like the ridiculous vegetable cream-soup loved by W.W.

He exhaled, shaking off the strange reverie. There was nothing more primitive and down-to-earth than W.W. and her gastronomic quirks. Fran was more than just grateful for this now.

"Hi, bro!" he exclaimed, as he faded into invisibility, simultaneously side-stepping out of harm's way, and not a moment too soon. A knife, weirdly shaped but obviously sharp, zoomed past him – slower than it normally would if Fran wasn't in his black-and-white illusionary world, but still much faster than he'd expected.

Fran whipped around to look at the attacker and found that he hadn't moved from his place by the door. This was both good, because Fran preferred to put as much distance as he could between himself and raging madmen, and bad, seeing how this door was the only escape route from the house, and now it was blocked. What disturbed Fran even more was that the guy was, in fact, smiling – a wide, toothy smile of a child who had just been given the toy he'd been asking for since last Christmas. It was a smile that promised things Fran didn't want to experience.

There was no way to figure out exactly if the maniac could see him or not, due to the fact that his blond hair obscured half his face. Fran wondered if he was blind and maybe relied on his hearing instead. The possibility did nothing to cheer him up. Even if the bastard _was_ blind, which was, after all, only a wild guess, he had no idea if his invisibility trick cancelled out any senses other than sight. It had never occurred to him to check. Supposing that he ran for it, would this nutter hear the sound of his footsteps or not? Fran wasn't sure he wanted to find out. He hesitated, trying to decide what to do, and these two or three seconds very nearly cost him his life.

There was a soft, low chuckle, which dissolved into laughter; and next moment, a volley of knives came flying in a wide arc in Fran's direction. There was no way to avoid them all but drop down to the floor, and he did so, somehow managing not to squash the cake. As he looked up he saw all the blades stuck into the walls at various angles, some of them quite strange and seemingly useless as they appeared to have veered too far away from where he was. Quickly, Fran started to get up. His poor intuition shrieked histerically in the back of his mind, and he froze as his eyes landed on something in the air a foot above his head, glimmering ever so faintly in the soft evening sun still shining through the narrow dusty window. Something long and impossibly thin, like a thread of a spider web, like a guitar string, like a wire.

A wire.

Fran felt his mouth go instantly dry, as his unhelpful imagination painted a picture of himself cut in two by this thing. Now that he knew what to look for, he was beginning to see others as well. Everywhere where a knife was embedded in the wall, there was a glimmer, a blade so stretched and so compressed at the same time that it became nearly invisible.

Fran swallowed. This was no joke, for sure. This was a real maniac.

Another chuckle snapped him out of the terrified stupor.

"Ahh, I can _see_ you again. What was that thing you did to hide yourself, hm? I never saw anything like this before. But it won't work again, you know."

Three thoughts registered as Fran's head jerked in the direction of the voice. The first one was full of triumph – his tricks were working! Even on that maniac, they were working! The second was like a cold shower and it said: yeah, but you lost your focus and the illusion got dismissed, so what? The third was bereft of any emotion and simply stated the fact: the bastard had finally decided to leave his strategic position by the exit. Well,_ of_ _course_, he had. It was now impossible to reach the door without bumping straight into him – and outcome Fran was determined to avoid at all costs – and everything to the left and to the right was criss-crossed with wires; a deadly shimmering net. It didn't matter now that the blond madman appeared to be susceptible to Fran's illusions: this place was already a trap. The only way to go was up the stairs, further into the old house.

Back into W.W.'s cozy apartment which, fortunately, had a big, serious door with a big, serious lock. Back to safety.

Leaping over several steps at a time, praying he'd be able to outrun the enemy, Fran shot up the stairs, followed by the hissing sound of the bastard's laughter. It puzzled him that the guy didn't try to catch up with him, that no knives were flung at his back; but he had no time to contemplate such subtleties. Maybe for the psychopath down there it all was a game. Cat-and-mouse sort of thing, why not? He'd think about it later, _after_ he locked the door.

Fran fumbled for the key in the pocket of his pants, glancing nervously over his shoulder; fished it out and shoved into the keyhole, and turned, twice. He half-expected the door to remain closed, like it would in any self-respecting nightmare, but nothing of the sort happened. The lock gave a gentle _click_ and Fran half-fell into the familiar hallway.

Something strange was going on.

The lights were on in the kitchen, and the air was permeated with the aroma of coffee. W.W., wearing something that seemed too festive for the circumstances, was sitting by the window, very still and very pale, hands folded on the table in a proper schoolgirl manner. She was looking straight at him, her eyes too huge for her face. Any other time, Fran would consider it funny and pester her about how stupid she looked, but right now he wasn't in the best of moods.

Besides, W.W. had company. There was a man at the other end of the table, and as he saw Fran, he stood up.

Fran blinked, tired and bewildered. He hadn't really considered the possibility of W.W. acquiring a personal life that didn't include Master, but even if he had, he would have never thought _this_ was the type of man she would go for. Even for her, the guy seemed a bit too extreme. He appeared to be in his late twenties, tall, with long hair so white it was painful to look at, and a face that was all sharp angles and lines. He didn't strike Fran as particularly friendly. The fact that he was equipped with a sword didn't help the matters either.

Fran stared at the sword, praying it wasn't real. But he knew better than to raise his hopes.

By the window, W.W. unfroze and said in a small, strangled voice.

"What... what are you going to do with him?"

Fran opened his mouth to inform her that he didn't give a damn if she organized an orgy, and anyway, it was even better to have more people around, taking into account that the blond maniac might not have left yet, when he realized that she wasn't talking to him.

This was immediately confirmed, as the white-haired man replied, without as much as looking at her. "What do you _think _we're gonna do with him, eh? Actually, we're gonna do you a favor, totally free of charge, no fucking catch, no shit. Sounds pretty good, doesn't it?" His cold evaluating gaze slid over Fran, making him more than a little uncomfortable. "We're taking this worthless little piece of crap with us, is what I'm saying. Isn't that what you wanted all along?"

"Yes, no, well, I'm don't..." she hesitated, biting her lower lip, then started anew. "It's just that you can't actually–"

"I can and I fucking will. Watch me." His voice was loud and harsh, and to Fran, it sounded like metal being cut with a saw.

"What? No, wait, you can't just take him away like that, I mean, I've been told to keep... it's not that I care of anything, but I can't let you–" Apparently, it was beginning to dawn on W.W. that he wasn't listening to her; and she seemed desperate to get her point across, because she rose from her chair and grabbed his arm.

It clearly was the wrong thing to do. In one fluid motion, the swordsman shook her off and then backhanded her across the face. She slammed into the wall, made a wet hiccupping sound, and collapsed on the floor like a rag doll. He didn't even bother to pause and glance at her. Instead, he fixed Fran with a stare and took a step in his direction.

Not even attempting to make sense of what was happening anymore, Fran tried to become invisible again. If it had managed to affect the psycho below, surely it wouldn't fail him now.

The swordsman sneered, lips peeling back in a humourless grimace. His eyes never left Fran's.

"Huh! This pathetic shit won't work on _me_, brat!"

At the same time, Fran heard the already familiar hissing laughter from behind him, where the front door still remained unlocked. He didn't turn to check if his imagination was playing tricks on him. By now, he was certain it was not a coincidence or an accident. Something was going on that he hadn't been told about, despite the fact that he was, in fact, right in the middle of it. These men must have come here – come from where, by the way? – specifically for him, that much was clear from what the white-haired guy had told W.W.

Dazed, Fran prodded his memory, searching for someone who might be interested enough in him to send _professionals_ to pick him up, but nothing sprang to mind. Sadly, he wasn't given time to come up with more theories.

He _did_ have enough time to see the swordsman lunge, inhumanly fast, uncaring of the feeble illusionary tricks; see the hungry, enraptured grin and eyes like arctic water. One final thought coagulated in the back of his panic-stricken mind and filled him with regret: somewhere along the way, he'd lost the cake.

Then the world blacked out and faded away.

* * *

A/N: well, what can I say? At least it's a_ long_ chapter. And stuff finally gets to happen. I'm not sure if I mentioned this before - my memory is like a leaky cauldron, sadly, - but it's not the end of the story. You didn't really think it was going to end before Fran even had a chance to meet Xanxus, did you? Also, all the currently unresolved issues _will_ be addressed, I guarantee that. :) Even the one about what Lussuria put in the soup.

Thank you all for your amazing reviews! Please, tell me what you think, you know I like it!


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

(_in which Fran embarks on a journey_)

-/-

Fran hovered in a vast, limitless space between consciousness and unconsciousness, and tried to figure out which way he wanted to go. It wasn't easy, because the world around him was pitch-black and all directions looked exactly the same; or rather, there were no directions at all to speak of. Technically, it should make him uncomfortable and disoriented, but in reality, the feeling only existed as a sort of background knowledge – Fran was aware of the fact that things must be going pretty bad, but couldn't find it in him to bother, at least for now. He didn't really want to do anything about his rather unusual predicament either. He was quite fine in this timeless, in-between place, at least for the given value of fine, which was fast becoming an unfamiliar concept.

Actually, the time itself appeared to have become an unfamiliar concept, and Fran had absolutely no idea as to how long he had been floating about in the cozy, private darkness of what was apparently his own head. His memory was all hazy and blurred. It might as well belong to someone else, for all Fran cared, so small, and far-off, and unrelated it all seemed to him now. It hadn't vanished or gone wrong, of course, it just wasn't making any sense; as if someone particularly creative had decided it might make a jolly good puzzle and dumped all the pieces on the floor in a big heap. Not a single one was lost, but there was no way to tell what the original picture looked like. Fran prodded at it experimentally, to see if something happened, but the cool, black waters of amnesia remained still. He opted to let it go. Who cared, anyway? It was so peaceful here.

Well, except for the weird echoing noise that was very faint and muffled but at the same time seemed to be absolutely everywhere; an urgent susurrus as if the aliens were conversing about a very important matter. Since he had nothing better to do, Fran urged his disembodied self to drift toward what he liked to believe was the sourse of the sound, and tuned in.

"Hey, what the hell are you doing? Bel!"

"What?"

"What's up with this shit you put over his head? What's the big idea?"

"It's a plastic bag, Captain Squalo. So he can't see what we're doing."

"But he'll fucking suffocate!"

"Oh? Since when did you become so caring?"

"Caring, my ass! We need this little slug alive by the time we get back to the boss, or else we're screwed."

"_You_'re screwed, you mean. And I couldn't care less about that."

"You're fucking included!"

"No, I'm not. The boss put _you_ in charge of the search, Chief Commander, so it's all your responsibility. I'm just here for fun."

"One more fucking word, brat, and I'll shove _you_ into that stinky bag and kick you all the way back to Italy so you can repeat all this to our damn boss. Especially that last bit about fun."

"He's expecting the new illusionist, not me."

"Exactly, asshole. And you're gonna have the honour of explaining to him why you went and offed the only decent guy we could find. My advice is, try to break it to him gently or he may decide to roast you on the spot. Lots of fun, eh?"

"Your sense of humour is as crappy as ever, Captain Squalo."

"No worries. I'll just chill here for a couple of days and work on it while you two sort the shit out."

"Whatever. The little idiot's going to be just fine, I'm telling you. Do you really think it's the first time I put a bag over someone's head? Have you forgotten I'm a prince? When Mammon and I were–"

"Alright, but I knocked him out anyway. We don't even _need_ your shitty bag."

"Yes, we do. He's stirring."

"These are fucking convulsions, you dumbass!"

The voices faded away, drowned out by the darkness as it swirled and became denser and heavier, and somehow even _darker_ than before, although Fran wouldn't be able to explain how it was possible if his very life depended on it.

Speaking of which, Fran thought, was he still alive? Vaguely, he remembered that somewhere out there, he used to have a physical body which he was presumably still attached to, or else he would now be whooshing through a tunnel of white light and hopefully heading for some sort of paradise, because thiscertainly wasn't it. On the other hand, no one had ever promised him a happy ending, so maybe he _was_ dead, after all, just not in the paradise. Fran felt rather irritated. He was prepared to put up with a great deal of things – he'd had plenty of time to learn it was the best way to stay afloat in the world – but he found that he strongly objected to the idea of the afterlife full of nothing but excrutiating boredom and imaginary voices that kept on bickering about things he couldn't even begin to understand. They must be spirits, he concluded. Evil spirits, probably, knowing his luck. The sheer amount of swearing that permeated their conversation was proof enough of that.

Fran wasn't sure how many there were, seeing how the voices were so distant they might as well be coming from another dimension, but there was clearly no love lost between them. It was a little puzzling, because one would expect aetherial beings to be above such an idiotic – and human – thing as petty arguments, but who was he to judge?

They also seemed to be completely oblivious to, or uncaring of, Fran's presence, if it could be called that. In his heart of hearts, Fran knew without as much as a shadow of doubt it was the latter. Nothing could be more natural and fitting than for him, after a lifetime of being ignored, to wind up in a place where even the denizens considered him unworthy of their attention. They must know he was accustomed to such treatment and had simply decided to put off dealing with him and carried on with their own business instead.

To his great surprise, Fran realized he was now beyond irritated – in fact he was getting closer and closer to angry. It rarely happened – anger was only useful when you were strong enough to back it up, preferably with a shotgun, or a very big fist, and he had neither – but these invisible snobs had really managed to upset him. This time, he thought, he was going to give them a piece of his mind.

The vacuum around Fran snapped. The blackness had lost its thick woolen quality and began to receed somehow, so that what remained in its place was a less impressive, less suffocating kind of darkness, such as might be found behind the firmly close eyelids. The voices of the evil spirits also returned, and this time they were not far-off or muffled, but clear, and loud, and _different_, so it became obvious that two beings were contributing to the dialogue.

"Holy fucking shit," said the first voice, with unbearable loudness. "Will you look at this."

"Look at what?" The second voice was more tolerable, if only because it was considerably quieter.

"We need to tie up the little fuck, you brainless wacko!"

"Who are you calling brainless, Commander? Wanna know whose IQ's higher?"

"The only damn thing I wanna know right now, brat, is why the heck our stupid boss won't let me cut off your head and put it on a pike in the garden. I mean it's high time we renovated the place anyway, it's so fucking dull."

"The boss knows the Prince is more valuable than the rest of you lot." An impossibly smug note entered the quieter voice.

"Oh yeah? Then you'd better hold on to that thought when the bastard feels all cranky and kicks your kidneys out through your ears." The loud voice sounded amused, in a dry, matter-of-fact sort of way. Then, almost without a pause, it assumed a business-like tone. "Hey, got a rope or something?"

"A _rope_? And you were the one complaining about the Stone Age. Didn't you bring the cuffs?"

"I damn well did, but they're no use. Look at his wrists."

"Ah..."

"Tch. Yeah. How was I supposed to know he's an anorectic shrimp?"

There was a moment of gloomy silence which Fran attributed to the fact that both voices needed some time to contemplate the problem without interruption. Then the quieter voice said.

"Didn't you see his picture though? I mean, it doesn't really take a genius like me to see when someone can hide behind a broomstick. It should have been obvious even to the likes of you, Captain Squalo."

"You also saw the bloody picture, smartass! Why didn't you say anything then?"

"I'm not supposed to do your job for you, that's why. Actually you should be grateful I was generous enough to help you out with that lock. Have you already decided how you're going to return that favor, by the way?"

"By not chopping you up for a fucking carpaccio!"

"As if you could. Well, who cares? Let's try this."

"Huh? Ah, right... hey, why the hell are you doing it with just one hand?"

"Because my other hand is occupied with the cake."

"The cake? You actually had the time to go and steal a cake?"

"I found it. I didn't _steal_ it."

"You so did, didn't you? Because you never pay for any damn thing... Oh, cut the crap and gimme that, I'll do it myself!"

The world jerked once, then twice, and the comfortable darkness fled. Physical pain invaded the territory and immediately Fran was forced to come to terms with the idea of being very much alive and capable of feeling everything that was currently being done to him. None of it seemed to be nice. The bliss of the temporary amnesia had also dissipated, making everything that had occurred in the last few hours come back in a rush; and as soon as it did, the disembodied voices of what he had labeled as evil spirits stopped being disembodied and attached themselves to the two people Fran wanted to see the least at the moment: the blond psycho with the knives and wires, and the _other_ psycho, with the sword. His head felt like it was stuffed with wool, his vision was blurred, and his wrists must be on fire, because all the pain in the world seemed to have concentrated in them. Well, it wasn't particularly surprising, of course, given the fact that he had his hands twisted behind his back at a very unnatural angle.

Fran coughed and made a valiant attempt to spit out the dust, but it was no use: he was lying face-down on the spotless floor of W.W'.s cozy kitchen _and_ beginning to realize it wasn't as spotless as it had previously appeared. In fact, by the looks of it, the place was in dire need of cleaning. Tears welled up in Fran's eyes – he wasn't sure if it was because his hands hurt so much, or because of the dust – but he did his best to ignore it and tried think of a way to safely get out of this situation instead.

Or, if that didn't work out, to just get out. In one piece, if that wasn't too much to ask.

Fran had met a lot of bullies in the course of his life, and he knew what to expect and wasn't thrilled at the prospect. He was also smart enough to know that a creative bully was even worse than a regular one. A regular bully would feel satisfied to knock out your teeth. A creative one wouldn't let it go until he made you wear them as a necklace. A recollection of what had only recently transpired down in the hall presented itself for inspection and Fran was forced to admit that he had no desire to find out exactly how much imagination the blond freak could boast of.

He craned his neck, and found himself staring at a boot. It was black.

"What the fuck d'you think you're doing down there, wriggling like a worm, eh?" said the loud voice from far above. "Keep still. Or else."

"I don't really mean to piss you off, guys," Fran began, but the quiet voice interrupted him with a joyful laugh.

"Don't worry. You already have."

The boot moved. The darkness descended. This time around, Fran didn't even bother with being surprised

.

-/-

M.M. lay on the floor, unmoving, and waited for the door to close. For some unfathomable reason, she had expected the Varia to bang it so hard it would fly off the hinges, but they had done nothing of the sort, of course. It stood to reason, she supposed. Why would they want to attract the attention of the neighbours to the fact that someone was trying to sneak a lifeless body out of the apartment? Even if the body in question was wrapped tightly in a blanket.

She heard them grumble at each other in the hallway; Belphegor's soft hissing voice, like an irritated snake, and Squalo's low, half-hearted snarl. They seemed to be incapable of shutting up for more than five minutes. M.M. wondered if they noticed it or if they simply didn't care enough to stop. Or maybe it was a typical Varia-style verbal exchange, who could say.

There was more grumbling, and more swearing, and some suspicious shuffling noises as well, but eventually the door clicked shut. M.M. strained her ears, still prudent enough, or paranoid enough, for that matter, to remain still. She wanted to make absolutely sure they had left –reallyleft for good – before she did anything she might come to regret if, for example, those crazy jerks suddenly realized they had a long road ahead and returned to grab a sandwich. It was rather unlikely, seeing how they had somehow procured a cake (they had argued about it for about five minutes before finally setting off), but one could never be too careful.

She had no idea why they had been gracious enough to leave her alive, but she didn't want to give them a reason to reconsider. They had dragged Fran away with them – quite literally dragged – back to Italy, she assumed, where they supposedly had an office, or a base, or a den, or whatever else it was where the lot of them lived and, eh, _worked_, for the lack of a better word. M.M. found it hard to imagine the Varia assassins leading a life even remotely similar to that of ordinary people. Judging by how infuriatingly rude and unrefined they were, they might as well inhabit a cave. A dark, stinky hole with lichen crawling across the walls and a pile of bones and skulls in a corner. It wouldn't surprise her in the slightest. They would probably eat raw meat, too.

No more sounds came from the hallway. Even the faint echo of their footsteps had died out, so that all she could hear now was the fly buzzing against the window and the cars speeding past the house in the street outside. M.M. decided it was okay to open her eyes and, at long last, relax. She hadn't even realized she'd been holding her breath, either, and it was such a tremendous relief to stop doing it. She stared at the ceiling, her mind almost empty safe for the single thought she hadn't been able to cast away for the last half an hour.

What on earth was she going to tell Mukuro? Because sooner or later he would undoubtedly inquire about Fran again, even though he hadn't done so in a while. M.M. didn't really think Mukuro was deluded enough to actually expect her to fight the Varia, much less come out as a winner – haha! wasn't _that_ funny? – but she still dreaded the moment when she had to give explanations. _They bundled him up in a blanket and carried him away because I was scared out of my wits_ was the sort of excuse that did nothing to boost her self-esteem, and nor was it something Mukuro might be delighted to hear. She could just about picture his expression when she told him. She hated that expression. She hated being the cause of it even more.

Anyway, it was definitely time to wave Fran good-bye, whether she wanted to or not. If only she knew anything at all about the mafia and its charming ways, she wouldn't be seeing the little prick again any time soon. Maybe they would even kill him. Why not? Killing was the daily bread for the Varia, after all. It was the reason they had money to afford the aforementioned daily bread, as well as a great deal of other, less daily things.

She wasn't about to shed any tears of regret over Fran's sudden and unnatural departure, of course. His absence was the part she actually liked; and she sure as hell wasn't going to miss him. It was Mukuro's reaction she had a problem with, but she couldn't do anything about it, so perhaps it was better to resign herself to the fact that he was going to be unhappy and maybe even take it out on her.

M.M. stared fixedly at the tiniest, almost non-existent stain on the pristine ceiling of her kitchen and prayed he would choose some other victim. Ken, for example, would serve as a perfect stress ball. She knew _she_ would simply love to kick Ken's dirty ass to the end of the world. Besides, he was so absolutely useless and disgusting, it wouldn't be a loss anyway.

Speaking of losses, it was becoming painfully clear that unless she paid a visit to a dentist in the nearest future, she was in for paying for artificial teeth instead. Squalo, that bastard. Had it really been necessary to hit her across the face! What the hell did he usually do with that fist of his, smash bricks? Slowly, M.M. sat up and brought a hand to her jaw but stopped short of actually touching it, for fear some of her teeth might fall out if she prodded too hard. Half her face must be swollen already, she thought gloomily. Inwardly – she wasn't sure she should open her mouth at all at the moment – she cursed Squalo, and the rest of the Varia, and, of course, Fran, and wished something big and ugly would materialize and eat them all.

A girl could dream, as she liked to say. Even if it was only because she couldn't do all the other cool stuff.

-/-

Once inside their private jet, Squalo dropped the bundle that was Fran on the floor and headed toward his seat, scowling at nothing in particular as he did. Belphegor had already plopped down and was now contemplating the cake box h'd brought along, a thoughtful expression on what was visible of his face.

"What's wrong, brat?" asked Squalo brusquely. He had known Bel since forever and didn't need to go and look him in the eye to realize something was up. "Aren't you gonna open the damn thing? If you had to go and steal it, you might as well eat it."

"I didn't _steal_ it. I looted it off the fallen enemy."

Squalo sneered nastily. "Looted it? So you were off killing bakers while I was doing all the fucking work?"

"Not at all, Chief Commander," replied Belphegor with dignity. "_He_ dropped it when I chased him up the stairs." He flicked his hand in the direction of the blanket-covered form on the floor. "That makes this cake my trophy. The spoils of war kinda thing." He smirked arrogantly. "Besides, you shouldn't be complaining. You got the best part of the job."

Squalo, who had already pulled out a bottle of cognac and was in the middle of opening it, paused and frowned. "Which was...?"

"The interrogattion, of course." Bel chuckled under his breath and proceeded to unwrap the cake.

"What? How come that is the best part, you idiot?"

"Because you got to play with the girl, of course, why else?" Bel opened the box and measured the cake with a look. "Ah, chocolate. By the way, Captain Squalo, did you bang her or not? You had plenty of time."

Squalo had to concentrate to avoid choking on his cognac. It was a good, high-quality cognac and it deserved better treatment. "So that was what you thought I was doing? Fucking her? Whatever the hell gave you the idea?"

"Well, you were so dead set against _me_ interrogating her, so I figured you were just desperate," Belphegor flashed a wide, insolent smile at Squalo and began to cut the cake with one of his custom-made knives. "I mean, obviously, there's no way you can compete with me, right? So I decided to be merciful and step aside. Oh, and that's the second favor I did you today. There was also the lock, remember?"

Squalo gaped at him for a split second, then exploded.

"Shut you filthy trap! I'm _not_ fucking desperate! I can have anyone I want! Any damn where I want, got it, you snotty fuckface?"

"And yet all you ever get back home is cheap whores..."

"The fuck are you saying! My whores aren't cheap!"

"They so are. Even Levi agrees, just so you know."

"Levi? _Levi_ agrees?" Squalo slammed a fist into the wall – the pilot squeaked feebly in alarm and was ignored. "You assholes are discussing this shit behind my back, aren't you!"

"Oh yes." Belphegor confirmed shamelessly and bit into the biggest piece of the cake. "Anyway, it's too bad you missed your only chance." And he actually managed to look disappointed.

Squalo opened his mouth to instruct the brat on where he and Levi could shove their worthless opinions, but then it occurred to him that Bel looked a bit too disappointed for this whole thing to be just a stupid joke. This was downright weird and completely unlike his normal attitude. Squalo narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He definitely smelt a rat here. And there was also that other stuff that didn't make any sense...or did it?

"Hey, punk," he said casually. "Forget that for a while," _But we'll get back to it later and I'll make you pay,_ he didn't say but thought. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"Ah?"

"Back there," Squalo waved his good hand, indicating Paris, which was, by now, far below and fading away quite fast. "Why did you stop me from killing the little bitch? And don't give me that crap about you being merciful, because I'm not buying it," he added before Bel could reply.

"Oh, that wasn't about mercy," Bel fished out his own bottle and uncorked it. "I just thought the boss might not appreciate us killing her."

"The boss?" Now Squalo was trully puzzled. He was prepared to hear more or less anything, but he had never expected the conversation to veer toward Xanxus. "Where does he come into this?"

"You're pretty slow, Captain Squalo." Bel giggled and slurped his wine. "Mukuro Rokudo is part of the Vongola, in case you've forgotten."

"Are you delirious, brat? You sure nothing bit you? What does _he_ have to do with anything?"

"Well, the little bitch is his girlfriend, or sidekick, or something like that. Before the Vindice got their hands on him for the second time, he'd always dragged her and those other two with him wherever he went. We've got a file on him and her picture is in there, remember? Wouldn't have looked good if we'd killed her without the boss' permission."

Squalo looked at Belphegor and – a rare occurrence – remained silent. The latter took advantage of the fact and attacked the cake again, but Squalo didn't even have it in him to comment, at least for the time being. Rokudo's girlfriend? Damn, that was one dumb word. But it was true – now that Belphegor had reminded him, Squalo finally understood why her face had seemed so familiar. He had never met her in person before today – he would have recognized her if he had – but he had indeed read Rokudo's file, along with the others, and seen her picture. Oh, shit.

He tried to guess what Xanxus would say if they had really offed the slut, and gave up. There was no predicting the boss. His reaction might range from a disinterested _whatever_ to blasting their heads off with the Flame of Wrath. You never knew what was coming, with Xanxus. Squalo was more than glad that this time he wouldn't be putting his luck to the test.

"Hey, look who's back with us." Belphegor's gleeful voice brought him out of his dark musings.

On the floor, the blanket was stirring.

"Huh." Squalo reached down and jerked the thing off Fran in one motion. "Time to wake up, little shit!" he barked loudly, and his and Bel's wine glasses responded to his voice with a gentle tinkling sound.

Fran looked up, blinking owlishly, eyes still clouded and devoid of understanding. He shook his head like a person might do upon waking up after a long, long sleep.

"Eh?"

"Welcome aboard," Bel sang happily. "And thanks for the cake."

Fran's empty gaze fell automatically on the cake, half-finished by that time, then, as if by magic, he appeared to come back to his senses.

"This is my cake."

"Not anymore."

"This is _my_ cake. Why are you eating my cake?"

"Because I'm a prince, obviously." Bel was so smug it was almost unbearably disgusting.

Fran seemed to give the matter some consideration. Eventually, he must have decided it was bullshit – which, as Squalo fully agreed, it was – because he looked up defiantly and declared.

"Then you must be a fake prince. If you were the real thing, you'd have your own cake."

The haughty smile slid off Belphegor's face and was replaced by an unattractive scowl. Of all the possible insults, this was the one that not only ticked him off, but made him go on a rampage.

"I'll show you which of us is fake," he hissed, reaching inside his jacket.

Squalo decided he didn't need a bloodbath just yet.

"Shut up, both of you idiots!" he snarled and reinforced the order by giving Fran, who was closer, an encouraging kick. "You put your fucking knives away, Bel, and finish the shitty cake. And you, little piece of shit, pick yourself up... nah, better stay down there, you're too damn dirty, and tell me every damn thing you know about Mukuro Rokudo. Now."

Fran sat up on the floor and, instead of answering, examined the front of his shirt. He fingered the hem, prodded at the right sleeve, which seemed to be on the verge of falling off, and heaved a sigh that indicated he was in the middle of a personal tragedy.

"Well?" snapped Squalo impatiently.

"It's my second-best t-shirt," said the little punk in that annoying monotonous voice of his. Right now there was a hint of reproach to it. "You've completely ruined it. Look, this sleeve is torn, and– "

"If you don't shut up and start talking, I'll ruin a lot more for you!" Squalo wondered what awful crimes he'd committed to deserve being saddled with morons who had to have everything repeated to them before they got the message.

"No, you won't. I only have one t-shirt here," Fran pointed out helpfully, and Squalo's hands itched to rip his head off, but unfortunately, that was not an option.

Well, maybe Xanxus wouldn't like the little shit either, and then he, Squalo, would have the privelege of chop him up like a cabbage. Without further ado, he brought his fist down on Fran's head and sent the boy sprawling on the floor again, although this time he took care not to knock the brat unconscious. There was more interrogating to be done.

There were issues to be resolved before that, though.

"You try to show off again, you pathetic piece of crap, and I'll take that as a sign you don't really need all those fingers," he said menacingly as Fran rubbed the back of his head. "His fucking majesty here will be delighted to help you get rid of them. So you hurry up and make up your mind. And you," he growled at Bel who was giggling maniacally as he watched the spectacle unfold, "are going to explain something to me while this freak is gathering his wits. And tell you what, you'd better come up with a real good answer, or else I'll cut out you heart and make you eat it."

"Oh?" Bel stopped laughing but the grin remained glued to his face. Squalo chose to ignore it: he was too livid to bother anyway.

"You knew the woman was Rokudo's personal bitch, didn't you? You recognized her?"

"Sure I did." Bel's smile was threatening to split his face by now. "So what? Some of us have good memory."

"Good memory?" Squalo barked, stabbing an accusing finger at Belphegor and wishing he hadn't put his sword away. "Then why don't you do me another fucking favor and explain why the hell you wanted me sleep with Rokudo's girlfriend!"

* * *

A/N.: Bel is such a troll here. I have no excuse.=) But hey, at least we get to find out what happened to the cake.

I'm so grateful for all the reviews, you have no idea. Please leave me another one, I'd love to know what you think! :)


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

_(which is mostly about frogs)_

-/-

It was seven past eight: a beautiful morning, picturesque and fresh due to the fact that the sun wasn't high enough to turn the world into a microwave oven yet. A gentle breeze was stirring the leaves of the trees where birds were chirping and twitting happily. The mountains looked majectic, their outlines crisp and clear in the air so pure one might have thought it belonged in a time long gone and forgotten, when there had been much more forests and fewer human beings, and the word _pollution_ hadn't yet been invented because no one would have known what to do with it anyway.

All in all, it was a very quiet place. The nearest highway lay a dozen miles to the north and the nearest village, about two miles to the west, and it wasn't much of a village to speak of in any case. It was, in fact, a small conglomerate of cottages and country houses – twenty nine in total – and half of them looked like they'd been built or acquired for the sole purpose of being rented out to people who thought summer was a good season to communicate with nature and seek inner peace. The rest were inhabited by clean, friendly people, who were generally happy to see a guest and, for a reasonable price, would serve a fabulous dinner consisting of all the necessary courses and with a bottle of home-made wine on top of that.

It was really quite bewildering, not to mention frustrating that somehow, finding a room in the village was a feat next to impossible. All the houses were _always_ occupied, especially if they seemed completely deserted, with dark, dusty windows you couldn't look through because the curtains would invariably be drawn, and the blinds, down, and doors were locked and bolted so firmly it made you suspect the only key had been eaten by a stray dog which no one dared lay a hand on as that would be cruelty to animals and thus unthinkable. Some travellers – there were few but people _did_ stop at the village occasionally, usually on their way to somewhere else – found it hard to believe in the total absence of spare rooms, and the most curious would go snooping about, knocking on doors and pestering the locals with nasty questions such as "who does this belong to?" and "where does the money come from if you guys all work here?" and even "what are those weird buildings out there?" That sort of misplaced curiosity was frowned upon, but of course there was simply no helping some people.

Sometimes, shortly afterwards the questioner would disappear without a trace.

The locals never wondered what could have made the busibody evaporate like morning dew. They were real professionals when it came to not noticing things and taking everything in their stride. One would have to go a long way to find people more oblivious – or more deliberately indifferent – to the goings-on of the world around them. They were perfectly aware of the fact that their safety, as well as their very _life _depended entirely on the ability to close their eyes to certain things, which ensured that this particular ability was cultivated as a form of art and no one would ever be caught skipping lessons. They were also paid for that, and it is a well-known fact that on the scale of motivating factors, greed is only a tiny bit less effective than fear.

That was why no one would even dream of going to look for those who were missing. Especially not anywhere close to the _weird buildings_. Definitely not there. For one thing, it was obvious that human beings didn't just blink out of existence: if a person went missing they probably deserved it because decent people minded their own business and didn't go around poking their noses into other people's affairs. Everyone knew that.

Besides, you just didn't go near the buildings. It wasn't officially prohibited or written in any books of rules and laws (most locals had only the vaguest idea of law and were in no hurry to learn. Laws were for big cities), nor did it have anything to do with superstitions. There was a perfectly logical, solid reason to stay well away from the place.

It was no secret that during the Second World War there used to be a military base out there; not a big one as military bases go, but nevertheless full of activity of a very certain kind. Old people could still remember a lot about grim, uniformed men armed to their teeth, and big ugly cars and mean-looking aircraft coming and going, and screams in the dead of the night, often followed by the sound of a gun being fired. Soon after the War ended, the base had been abandoned, the soldiers fleeing and scattering all over the country and beyond, determined to never return, taking all that was worth taking. None of the villagers had displayed any wish to explore what'd been left behind, much less use it, and so the place had soon fallen into decay and oblivion, which was one thing no living soul had seemed to regret. It had remained deserted for several decades until one day, about ten years ago, the villagers had woken up to the nostalgic sight of a plane taking off.

A careful inspection proved had proved that the long-forgotten base was indeed buzzing with life. The military people were back, although whether they were the same as before or not, was impossible to tell, nor did it really matter. They _looked_ military. They had uniforms on. Some days there were dozens of them milling about: all of them men dressed in dark, somber clothes, darting in and out of doors, carrying bags and packages and other objects, sometimes weirdly shaped, loading them on trucks which departed swiftly – usually in the direction of the mountains – gesticulating wildly and apparently talking to each other at the top of their voices. More often though, they came in small groups, rarely more than six or seven men at a time, several very fast, very black cars pulling up to the largest of the buildings at once. They never stayed long: soon after they had arrived, a jet would be seen taking off and melting into the sky.

They caused no trouble in the village. Provided no one poked their nose into what didn't concern them, of course. That was why the _weird buildings_ were left well alone, and so were those who used them for their own purposes, whatever those were.

That morning, though, only one person was gracing the old base with his presence. He was not in the best of moods. In fact, he seemed to be projecting irritation with such intensity that it was a miracle the birds could still pass above his head without dropping dead. The man had been pacing around his car for three hours now, peering up at the sky and muttering curses under his breath, until at seven past eight precisely, his patience had finally run out.

He yanked his phone out of the pocket and speed-dialed a number. There was several painfully long moments of waiting, but eventually something went _click_ at the other end and a disgustingly cheerful voice sang.

"Ye-es?"

"Finally, Lussuria!" said the irritated man, foregoing the old ritual of greeting and thus demonstrating that he hadn't had a proper upbringing. "Why the hell were you not answering my calls?"

"Ooh? Your calls? But Levi, it's only eight o'clock in the morning! I wasn't expecting you to call."

Levi scowled. He had been waiting for three – three! – bloody hours and the exercise had taken him to the whole new level of sourness. "What if the Boss'd called, not me?" he asked nastily, as there was no reason not to take his irritation out on Lussuria.

"The boss? Ohh, one can always hope! But he never calls me, you know. It's sooo unfair. And in any case, I was just too busy to talk."

"You were too busy to talk?" Levi could remember plenty of times when they had been unable to shut the pervert up, but not the other way around.

"Indeed I was! I was in the bathroom, that's why. And Levi, let me tell you about this completely _amazing_ lotion I bought yeste–"

The self-preservation instinct kicked in, tuning the rest of Lussuria's speech out. Levi put the phone away and spent a couple of peaceful moments contemplating the necessity of washing his car. It was so dirty even he had trouble guessing its original colour. Well, obviously it was black, but he could only tell because he _knew_. It didn't look black at all. The only way you could attach _Varia quality_ to the pitiful thing was by writing the words on its side with a finger.

He brought the phone back up to his ear.

"– already tried it out, and can you believe it, Levi, it removes _all_ the ha–"

"Shut up, Lussuria!"

"But honestly, I'm not lying! It's magic! Pure magic! And you should definitely try it yourself some time. I mean, you have wa-ay too much –"

"Shut up! Shut up!" Panicking, Levi raised his voiced so that it would drown Lussuria out. There was such a thing as unnecessary information. "Better tell me where those lazyass bastards are!"

"Eh? Who? Ahh! They haven't come back yet... Wait, why are you asking? You're not waiting for them down there, are you, Levi dear? Levi?"

"Unlike some people," replied Levi without false modesty, "I put my duties before fooling around with... _lotions_ and stuff."

"You poor thing, you have no idea what you're missing!" The undiluted sympathy in Lussuria's voice was so sincere it made Levi cringe. "Anyway," he went on, in what for him passed for a normal tone, "you don't have to wait for them, hon. I'm sure, Squalo and Bel will do just fine. They are big boys, you know."

"Those motherfucking slackers?" It was Levi's personal deep-rooted belief that Squalo was an irresponsible idiot whose only claim to glory was his big loud mouth; and his opinion of Belphegor had long since gone down the drain and never returned.

"How cruel and heartless!" crooned Lussuria happily, and added. "But that's what family is all about, isn't it?"

"Tsk. You're disgusting." Levi glared up at the sky again. Nothing there, except for goddamn birds. "Where's the Boss? Is he alright?"

"Of course he is, Levi. He's already fulfilled his nightly quota of glass-smashing and ass-kicking and now he's sleeping, the sweet thing. He's not much of a morning person, I'm afraid." That was true. Xanxus usually emerged from his den around noon and started to spread his foul mood around with a big shovel. Lussuria was well aware of it, but since he was Lussuria, he only cooed. "He needs his beauty sleep, after all, isn't it adorable?"

"Don't you talk about the Boss in that way, faggot." Levi growled, although he didn't really expect the Sun Guardian to listen, much less take it seriously. Lussuria was never entirely serious.

There was a large bird visible in the sky now, an eagle or a hawk, or possibly a vulture. It didn't look like it was going anywhere, but instead seemed to hang high in the air that was already beginning to heat up as the sun crawled from behind the horizon. Maybe the creature was hunting, or perhaps somewhere a cow had died. Regardless, Levi found himself annoyed by the sight and attributed the feeling to the growing hunger. He had no desire to look at something which was about to feast, even if all it would get was a dead cow, while he was stuck here alone, waiting for the useless bastards that were his colleagues to appear. Come to think of it, he would object to a dead cow either, provided it had already been turned into beef.

"I want to see what they chose," he muttered, more to himself than to Lussuria. "Bet he's no good." Levi was rather hurt that the Boss had chosen to assign such an important task to a dumb shit like Squalo, who only cared about the amount of fighting in which he might participate. How could have Xanxus entrusted the search for the new illusionist to a guy like that?

"Ohh, don't be such a spoilsport, pumpkin. I'm positive they'll do splendidly! Ah, I really can't wait, I want to see him! Or could it be a she, d'you think, Levi? Eh? A girl for me to go shopping with..."

"Even that idiot Squalo's not that dumb," said Levi, horrified beyond belief. The last thing they wanted was a woman in the midst of their ranks. Women on board were a bad, bad sign.

And that eagle just wouldn't fly away. Actually, it had gotten bigger.

"It's a funny thing that Squalo sometimes says the same about you, Levi dear, isn't it? Levi? Where are you again? You keep spacing out on me. It hurts me so much, just so you know."

Levi squinted. Then he blinked and squinted again, harder.

The realization dawned. Lussuria immediately forgotten, he hung up without a warning and fixed the shape that he had previously taken for a bird of prey with an impatient stare.

Finally, he thought as he watched the jet approach, finally the bastards were coming back.

-/-

As soon as the wheels of their jet touched the ground, Squalo grabbed Fran roughly by the scruff of his neck and loped toward the exit, dragging him behind and ignoring all the perfectly reasonable protests the illusionist tried to make. Due to the fact that Squalo was two heads taller, Fran found that he practically had to run in order to match his long strides. There was little doubt that should he stumble and fall, the swordsman would just press on as if nothing had happened. In fact, he might even make a point of trodding on him, if only to demonstrate his displeasure.

"Hey, long-haired dude," called Fran, as he attempted to untangle his feet. "Could you slow down a bit? Please?"

Instead of responding Squalo jerked him up by the collar, as one might do to a dog to remind the animal who was the master.

"Urghhh." Fran thought his head was about to fall off and couldn't stifle the gurgling sound that escaped his constricted throat.

"This is no fucking nursery, shithead," Squalo spat out, apparently taking it a sign of protest. "Don't you go around expecting me to play nice here, got it?"

"Awww!"

"Not me, nor anyone else. Got it?"

"Nghhh. Oh."

"The fuck was that!"

"I got it!" croaked Fran with considerable effort. "Totally got it!"

"You'd better, punk. Because I can damn well promise you that if you give me any trouble – any trouble at all, you hear me? – I'm gonna make a grilled chicken outta you. And then I'll eat... nah, I'll make _Bel_ eat you."

"Speak for yourself, Captain Squalo," Bel, who had been peacefully dozing in his seat for the last hour or so, digesting the cake, had perked up again. "I'm most certainly not going to eat him."

"Why the hell not?"

"He's way too shrivelled up. Probably poisonous as well."

Squalo made a rude gesture with his free hand. "Too bad. I was hoping we could get rid of both him _and_ you in one go."

"You should never be allowed to tell jokes, Commander. You suck so much, even the boss' sense of humor begins to look good by comparison."

"How dumb are you, brat? The boss doesn't have a sense of humor. At all."

"My point exactly."

"Huh...? What! Why you fucking shitty–"

An argument ensued, which, as Fran was beginning to realize, was the way things normally worked with those two. In a matter of seconds it turned into a shouting match; and weapons were drawn and brandished again, for what had to be the upteenth time this day; and threats became even more creative, and insults, particularly graphic. The amount of swearing increased drastically and various long-dead relatives on both sides were evoked and discussed at length.

Fran was amazed. He had met plenty of strange people during his life, but never anyone quite like the Varia. Their need for constant quarelling, for example, seemed to be powered by some sort of _perpetuum mobile_.

"Fucking son of a bitch! Who d'you think you're calling pathetic!"

"At least I'm not the one who has to take a shower ten times a day because the boss likes to dump shit on my head!"

"Yeah right, and yet you stink like hell anyway!"

Fran sneaked a glance at the pilot, the only other living soul in the jet apart from him and the two snarling maniacs. The guy was middle-aged, reasonably dull, and wore a resigned expression of someone capable of picking his teeth while a volcano erupted in the background. He was staring off into space; and although the jet had long since landed and come to a halt, he hadn't displayed any desire to open the door or inform his superiors that it was time for them to get out. Instead he was chewing on his lower lip dreamily, looking like he was in a world of his own, where no amount of yelling could ever hope to reach him and where he wouldn't mind staying forever.

Fran envied him that particular quality. He really wished he could forget about Squalo's fingers digging mercilessly into his neck, as the man himself seemed to balance on the verge of lunging at his buddy. He considered asking the swordsman to loosen his grip, but decided against the idea quickly. Even he could see that right now, the only result he would achieve if he interfered, would be both of them teaming up to kick _him_. Fran certainly didn't want that. He'd been kicked countless times already and he hadn't liked it one bit. Instead, he decided, he might as well use this unexpected break to think. The key to getting out alive was to find out what they wanted with him.

"– to shut up, _Commander_! The only reason you're even in position to give orders round here is because the boss is too lazy to be bothered with it!"

Well. As far as Fran could understand from all the questions the swordsman had asked, or rather, barked at him, those two bloodthirsty idiots were actually interested in Mukuro, not Fran himself. They must have only bothered with him in the first place because they thought Master shared his secrets with him (ha! as if). That was perfectly natural, of course. Mukuro was much more fascinating _and_ dangerous than most people, so Fran wasn't surprised that the Varia wanted to know what he was up to these days. Truth be told, he'd like to know it himself.

"– useless trash that takes up the fucking space! I swear I'll drown you in that shitty brew Lussuria calls soup if you don't–"

Tuning out their yells was probably the hardest thing he had ever had to do. Any more animosity, Fran thought dejectedly, and he would be able to see hundreds of frightened molecules of air crawling away in every direction to escape the danger. The image entertained him for a brief moment, then withered away, seeing how fun could never last long in such a hostile environment. Desperately, he tried to focus.

What he couldn't really understand was why they thought they would learn anything from him of all people. He hadn't spoken to Master for nearly three months now, although he had never told W.W. about that for fear she might throw him back out in the street with a gleeful squeak as soon as she heard. How the Varia knew he was Mukuro's student or how they'd managed to locate him in Paris, Fran had no idea, and he had wisely refrained from bringing the subgect up himself. He was too afraid his head would split like a ripe watermelon if Squalo smacked him again.

So far he had been knocked out (twice), kicked and hit and stepped on (repeatedly), and yelled at (non-stop). In fact, Squalo strongly reminded Fran of the proverbial _bad cop_ that unavoidably appeared in most Hollywood movies_._ He had all the required characteristics: he was rude, pushy, unreasonable, incapable of listening to other people, and beating someone to a pulp obviously made him feel good about himself.

The problem, thought Fran, was that in a decent movie, you also got a good cop to balance out the bad one, while in the real life both cops were usually beyond horrible. Squalo and Belphegor were the living proof of that. He tried, but couldn't decide which one was worse, which one he hated more. As soon as he would come to a conclusion that Squalo was a nightmare, Belphegor would fling a knife at him; and if he handed the metaphorical palm branch to Bel, Squalo would go and hit him a particularly painful way. By the moment they landed, Fran had already settled for the only possible answer: they were _both_ worse. It didn't make sense, technically, but it didn't have to either. The Varia made logic seem like a puny, useless thing.

Fran knew he had to exercise caution while around them, and it wasn't only because he liked to keep all of his bones and teeth intact. Sometimes, when Master felt generous and indulging, by his own standards at least, he liked to tell stories of the mafia underworld and the things that happened in it – who plotted what behind whose back, and who killed who and why, and suchlike – and the Varia got mentioned quite a lot, usually in connection with someone's sudden departure from the sinful world of the living. Mukuro had never specifically elaborated on the subject, and a great deal of his comments had been deragotary or mocking – they were mafia, after all, the thing he despised the most in the world – but Fran could see that he still held a modicum of respect for them, even if it was a very weird kind of respect indeed.

"–because you know, Captain Squalo, I think we're wasting time here."

"You don't say, brat."

"Well, aren't we supposed to present this insect to the boss before noon?"

For _some_ of them at least, for those were mentioned more often. It was alarming, in Fran's opinion, because normally, there was only one person deserving respect in Mukuro's universe, and that person was himself. Master could be stingy like that. And yet Squalo and Belphegor were among the lucky few – why, Fran couldn't fathom – which was precisely the reason he had felt apprehensive since the moment his gaze fell on their badges which proudly proclaimed to the world that they were the Varia.

Now that he knew who he was dealing with, he dug into his memory in search of any helpful details – hopefully, the kind that would enable him to weasel his way out this hell.

He recalled Master saying that Squalo would fight anything for the sheer sake of fighting (a very primitive approach more worthy of a barbarian, according to Mukuro) and that Belphegor was openly sadistic and mentally unstable (that coming from Mukuro was a truly frightening thing) and that it was advisable not to cross them unless one had a really good hiding place prepared in advance. Master himself had nothing to worry about, of course: no matter what atrocities he committed through his many puppets, the Vindice prison was the ultimate hiding place, far out of reach for even the likes of the Varia. In a very freaky way, it was the safest place in the world.

"Hey you! You over there!" Fran gave a start as Squalo's voice rose again, then realized that this time, the swordsman was talking to the pilot. "Will you open the friggin' door? Are you asleep or what? Unlike you moron, we've got shit to do!"

He and Bel must have reached some sort of agreement while Fran was busy not listening to them, because the stream of insults had ceased and the weapons were no longer anywhere to be seen. Instead, the pseudoprince was calmly adjusting his coat – while Squalo was scowling at the pilot, his grip on Fran as firm as ever.

"Yes, Commander!" The overexaggerated cheerfulness in the man's voice was obviously meant to demonstrate the eagerness to follow any order his superiors might decide to issue. Neither Squalo nor Belphegor appeared to think it was a big deal though – they were probably too used to being obeyed.

Vaguely, Fran wondered how it felt to be able to boss people around. Everyone he knew who had the talent – because it obviously required talent – looked like they wouldn't agree to relinquish the position if all the treasures of the world were offered to them. What wouldn't he give to be in charge just once! It wasn't like he demanded a lot: just being in charge of his own life for a change would do just fine.

The door slid open, and sunlight, bright and dazzling, assaulted Fran's eyes. It was followed by a wave of hot, dry air not so different from Paris but nevertheless frustrating after two hours spent in the cool interior of the jet.

Fran blinked and tried to stick his neck out as far as he could, considering the circumstances, and looked around in case he might be able to spot any handy geographic formations. So far, he hadn't had a chance to make a dash toward freedom. Some people might consider it a sign of cowardice, but Fran had felt really suspicious of all those clouds passing _below_ them as their jet headed in the unknown direction. Now, however, could be the right time to make his move–

"Quit wriggling, you sucker." Fran tried not to cringe as Squalo's vice-like grip on his neck edged closer to the point of becoming suffocating.

Well, perhaps, now wasn't the best time, after all. The landscape, or at least what he could see of it, was quite unfriendly to potential escapees, with the mountains looming practically above their heads and no convenient crowds to get lost in. Fran wondered how far they were from the nearest cluster of ordinary human beings and sighed.

He had proved to be unable to answer their questions, and that was that. There was nothing he could do to change the fact. He possessed no inside information he might share to buy his way out, no secret knowledge about Master and his insiduous plots, if he had any. When Squalo had first realized it, it had put him in such a spectacularly rotten mood that even the air seemed to have gone sour; and then Belphegor had joined in, making the temperature drop into the sub-zero, post-apocalyptical abyss faster than a landslide. Still, Fran couldn't see how it could get any worse for _him_. After all, he could barely breathe as it was.

"His face is going really green, Commander."

"Nah, that's just his hair."

"No, it's not." Fran squawked helpfully. "My face's not supposed to be green at all. I'm not a frog to be green, you know."

That statement was met with a heavy, ominous silence. Apparently, the Varia were incapable of understanding good jokes.

Well, that, or they had never seen a frog. Wouldn't be too surprising if that was the case. After all, no-one was likely to pay millions for the assassination of a small amphibian.

Fran looked up at their grim faces and struggled to clarify the issue.

"I mean, frogs are green, you see? But they're _naturally_ green. It's so they blend in with their habitat." He liked the word _habitat_ and was grateful for the rare chance to use it. It was very posh. It even tasted posh, like the chocolate cake he hadn't got an opportunity to eat.

The Varia said nothing. Their expressions remained frozen and unfriendly. Fran felt a bit annoyed. Why did he have to do everything again? They could at least nod along, couldn't they? Would it be so terribly hard to be a bit more cooperative? Maybe he should use simpler words for those two. They didn't look particularly bright.

"It's good for the frogs to be green cause it means they're healthy," he plunged onwards stubbornly. "But it's very different for humans, you know." The silence grew expectant. "_I_ am not a frog. It's not natural for me to be green, yes?"

He paused, waiting for reaction, but there was none. The only sign they were listening to his monologue at all was the unmistakable sense of morbid fascination now shooting through the air like electric discharge. Their faces might easily have been carved out of stone; they had even rearranged their features into mask-like perfection: Belphegor had dismissed his crazy grin and Squalo had lost the scowl. They were definitely paying attention to what he was saying, Fran thought, oddly satisfied.

Of course, there was a nagging suspicion that he was way out of his depth and sinking faster than a stone axe in the middle of the river, but it seemed unsafe to stop now. He babbled on.

"If I lived in a swamp, it might be convenient for me to become green," he said. "But I don't, so I'm not going to... I mean, I live in Paris, right?" He stared at them, and they stared back, blankly. "Not much green in Paris and it's a very big city. Green just wouldn't do. So, if you listened closely, you would now understand that I have nothing in common with frogs. You guys wouldn't want to be treated like frogs, would you? That's what _we_ have in common–"

"No. Fucking. Way." Squalo had recovered first and was now eyeing Fran in the creepiest way possible.

"I absolutely deny," said Bel in a hollow voice, "that I may have anything at all in common with you. I find it deeply apalling and uniquely disturbing that I have to breathe the same air as you. I refuse to belong to the same biological species as you. I don't even believe Captain Squalo here belongs to the same species as you, even though he's a hopeless dumbass. What?"

"Shut up, asshole. I'll show you who's a hopeless dumbass here."

"Who's going to let you?"

"Who's going to stop me? I'll make you eat my sword alright, you just sit tight and wait. But first, this fuckface."

"Frogface, you mean. Show some respect, Captain."

"For the goddamn frogs, you mean?"

There was a short pause, and then Bel said, in a dreamy voice.

"In some cultures, frogs are regarded as a delicatessen, mind you."

"In some cultures, rotten fish is the dish of the day, brat."

"Ye-es. Good thing we weren't born into those cultures. There_ is_ something froggish about the little piece of shit, though, isn't there?

Squalo scrunched up his face, then conceded, with obvious reluctance.

"Maybe, whatever. But I'll be damned if I know what the hell it is."

"Must be the obsession," Bel speculated, grinning like a cheshire cat again.

"Or he's simply an idiot." Squalo seemed to possess about as much imagination as a kitchen sponge.

"Or you could try letting go off my neck, stupid loud guy," Fran suggested from down below, but Squalo didn't dignify that with a response.

Instead, he finally took a step toward the exit, and the next thing Fran knew, he was unceremoniously dumped on the hard concrete surface of the runway. The impact sent a wave of pain through his body, and he immediately wished he had had a chance to emphasize that he wasn't really built to be put through any physical hardships. As he waited for the pain to subside, he wondered if the Varia who were known to use the Flames, had an illusionist of their own. What kind of a miserable existence that must be, Fran thought, happy that at least it wasn't him who had to work with the bastards on the daily basis.

A shadow of a movement nearby heralded Squalo's arrival. He landed almost without a sound, straightening up with cat-like grace, and before Fran had a chance to realize what was going on, the world jerked violently, and he felt that he was being lifted from the ground. With one hand, Squalo hoisted him in the air at the same eye level as himself and grinned widely. It wasn't a nice grin at all; it was wicked, and bright; and in its light, Fran could see a curtain rise over a future full of opportunities to become a meat pie. It wasn't a career path he wanted to follow. He suspected it would be too short for his liking.

"Who the hell are you calling stupid, little punk?" Squalo barked in that loud, disgruntled voice he apparently preferred to use in all conversations. "Let me tell you this: if you think I won't screw your ugly head off just because you're valuable, you're fucking mistaken, cause value is a fucking relative term. Got it? And if I hear one more word about the shitty frogs, I'm gonna go catch one and shove it up your ass. We'll see if you go green after that."

Fran glanced down at his feet, dangling helplessly in the air, at the unfriendly pavement which seemed to have moved quite far away; at the small yellow flowers dotting the grass off to the side; and thought that there had to be a deep philosophical meaning to the whole situation, a hidden message of some kind, if only he concentrated properly. Something as ridiculous as this couldn't have happened without a reason.

He also noticed that Squalo didn't look like he might get tired any time soon. His arm wasn't even trembling.

"Oh," said Fran bleakly. "You're very strong, I can see that. You've made your point, and I'm now properly impressed. But please put me back down. Heights always make me a little queasy."

"Heights make you queasy? What kind of lame excuse is that?" Squalo appeared to be torn between disbelief and disdain. "And what the hell do you mean, _heights_?"

"I'm used to being just a little bit closer to the ground, if you don't mind me saying it," Fran pointed out. "I think that my vestibular system is ill-suited for being suspended in the air, you know."

A very complicated expression settled across Squalo's face. However, he didn't move a muscle. Fran tried to make the man see sense again.

"Hey? Could you please let go of my collar? It's really uncomfortable, my neck hurts, and I feel like I'm about to be sick all over your boots, and besides, I assure you I'm quite capable of walking on my own– Aw!"

The ground rushed toward him with a remarkable speed and attempted to gave him a big, soppy kiss. Fran thrust out an arm to prevent this from happening. He looked up at Squalo, who had disgust written all over his face.

"Hey, did you really have to drop me like this?"

"You stay where I can see you and fucking well behave," Squalo warned, wiping the hand he'd used to hold Fran's collar on his pants.

"Oh, alright. I'll behave. Just don't hit me on the head, please." The left corner of Squalo's mouth curled upwards in a nasty sneer, and Fran added hastily. "Or anywhere else! I promise I won't say a word about frogs again." The sneer widened. "Okay, okay! I'm not saying anyhing at all! I'm shutting up."

"Good. Now, see that car over there?" There was indeed a car, parked on the far side of the runway, looking more like a big black bug than anything else from across the distance. A very tall man was pacing in front of it.

"Oh, I can see it." Fran squinted, but it was really to far away to make out any details. "That's one cool car, dude," he said regardless, because it couldn't hurt to be polite.

"Move it, then. Try anything funny, and I'll kick the living shit out of you."

They headed towards the aformentioned vehicle, Fran trotting ahead of the swordsman, trying very hard to appear harmless and resigned to his fate.

Man, he thought as he listened to Squalo's footsteps, deceptively soft, behind him, a car_ and_ a driver, and don't forget the jet, and the pilot, and God only knows what else. He could swear the bottle of cognac that Squalo had absent-mindedly left on his seat cost more than a dozen of W.W.'s designer dresses, and that was saying something. Fran had once checked out the price of those dresses – which, by the way, had entailed digging in the garbage bin, and could probably be considered a weird and disgusting pastime by some people, but hey, he had been curious – and he had been quite shocked when he saw the price tags. It was despicable to spend so much money on fancy clothes when there were many miserable people in the world, and homeless little kittens, and hungry kids, and, most importantly, a hungry Fran. He had always considered W.W. a bit crazy but she paled in comparison with the Varia.

These bastards were entirely too rich to be stealing poor guys' cakes. They had no right.

"Really good car, that," Fran repeated enviously, deciding that if it had something to do with the Varia, it was bound to be expensive.

"That old ruin?" Bel caught up with them, materializing out of thin air and emitting a soft hissing noise that sounded like a snake that had just had its tail stepped on. "I thought we'd go in your Maserati, Commander."

"You thought wrong, retard. My Maserati is in the garage back home. That pugfaced moron, Mario... no, Massimo... one of the Lussuria's idiots, whatever the hell he's called, yes? We had him drive us here, remember?"

"Right." Bel pulled a disapponted grimace. "Still, I like your Maserati. It's about the only thing I like about you."

A Maserati, Fran brooded, the stupid, loud, sword-waving madman owned a Maserati while decent people had their only cake in years snatched away from them without as much as a measly apology.

"Get your own then." Squalo shrugged, unsympathetically. "There're more where mine came from."

"No. I'm a prince. I can't have the same stuff as _you_." Belphegor's voice sounded dark and sulky, and Fran hoped like hell the maniac wouldn't try to use his back as a dartboard to relieve his stress.

"Buy a horse then. The only other idiot with a horse is that Gamma guy from the Giglio Nero Family and they like to sprout this crap about being royalty too. Maybe he's your long-lost brother or something. Imagine the happy reunion, eh?"

"Absolutely not. Besides, he's totally fake. Are you implying that I should _copy_ him?"

"Wouldn't dare, punk. Get yourself a pony instead. Safer too, and no speed limits."

"Just a few generations back, and I would have had you executed for insulting my dignity, Captain Squalo."

"Oh really? Then where's your princely license, your shitty majesty?"

"I'm glad you asked. The bastards took it away for nothing!"

_Don't look around_, Fran said to himself, beginning to walk just a little bit faster, _don't do anything rash, and maybe they'll get so absorbed in their conversation, they'll let me out of sight..._

"Yeah, sure. Because not knowing the difference between left and right is a fucking trifle on a highway."

"Well, the boss can't even read the speedometer."

"Nah, he can read it alright, he just doesn't care what it says."

"And yet no one ever dared to touch his license." The was a note of accusation in Bel's voice now.

"Or at least no one survived to tell the tale," Squalo replied matter-of-factly. "But, the shitty boss' driving habits aside, _you_ suck like hell, punk. There's no other fucking way to put it. You're even worse than Lussuria, and believe me, I know what I'm talking about. When I first saw the faggot drive, I wondered who would get all my stuff after I died in a car crash, me having no heirs and all."

"Why?"

"Because I also was in that car, that's why. And the faggot thinks it's not funny unless you zigzag."

"Huh... Do you have a lot of stuff, by the way?"

Their voices began to grow quieter, Fran noticed with satisfaction as he gradually increased the distance between him and his captors. He quickened his pace a bit more. With any luck, soon he'd be out of earshot, and then he might even risk a–

A shadow fell across his way, and almost immediately he bumped into something large and solid. There were buttons on it, metallic and with a symbol of some sort.

Fran blinked. A hand descended heavily on his shoulder nearly making his legs buckle and a deep voice boomed from above.

"Where do you think you're going, boy?"

* * *

A/N.: Squalo and Bel get carried away a lot, don't they? Anyway, now Fran's about to meet Xanxus who's not the type to chat about frogs at all.:)

Also, we're slo-owly inching toward the end. I _suppose_ there'll be two, maybe three chapters more, and that's it, because you have to stop somewhere.

I'm very happy you guys like the diallogue - I can't stop writing it for some reason. Please, drop a review again! I want to know what you think.=)


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

_(in which there's only one person calling the shots)_

-/-

Fran wasn't making any friends.

In fact, he was so good at not making friends, they might have to record it somewhere because you didn't get to see a guy like that every day. A very special mindset was apparently required to suck that much at something as primitive as small talk. Oh, most people sucked, in Squalo's opinion, and not just at small talk, but Fran gave the word a whole new meaning. It was as if the little piece of shit was determined to go down in history as the Boy Who Couldn't String Two Words Together Without Putting His Foot Into His Mouth.

Squalo could see it clearly, even though he had to use the rear-view mirror to make observations. It wasn't the best perspective in the world, but it was more than enough under the circumstances, and besides, he was the one doing all the driving. Not because he wanted to – the only thing Squalo wanted was to get the whole illusionist business over and done with – but because there was no one else for him to dump the job on. He had been counting on Massimo (or possibly, Mario whoever he was; Squalo never bothered to memorize their names, nor faces) to come and pick them up, but instead _Levi_ had decided to be over-zealous again and showed up himself, after a fucking three-day mission no less. Naturally, the idiot was half asleep, half cross-eyed and unfit to drive. Squalo shoved him on the backseat, nearly squashing Fran as he did, and inwardly congratulated himself on being the only reliable person for miles around. Too bad that it meant he had to take care of every damn thing himself, but he would rather choke on his own sword than let Bel drive. Idiots who thought left and right were a matter of personal opinion subject to inexplicable atmospheric fluctuations had to either be killed on the spot or stay the hell away from anything that moved.

He accelerated, wishing he was in his Maserati instead of this poor excuse for a car.

"Excuse me," said Fran's voice from behind him. "May I ask a question?"

Squalo ignored the little cockroach, but the passenger seat was, quite unfortunately, full of Belphegor, and _he_ felt like answering.

"No, you can't," he chirped happily. "We're the ones doing the asking here."

"That's very cliche of you, fake prince," Fran droned in response. "You sound very cheesy when you say things like that, you know."

"I'm a prince. I'm never _cheesy_."

"Except now. You're being very cheesy now."

"Will you two shut up?" complained Levi in a drowsy voice. "People are trying to catch some sleep here."

Belphegor paid him no heed. He didn't even make any snide comments, which was a clear sign his attention was now fully concentrated on Fran.

"Who the hell allowed you to talk to me like that, pathetic little piece of frog? This knife goes right in your heart unless you take back what you said about me being fake."

"And cheesy."

"Say this stupid word one more time and you're a pincushion."

"But I wasn't talking to you at all. I was talking to the loud guy."

Squalo gritted his teeth. He longed to throw them both out of the car and then run them over. Twice.

"What now, brat?" he grunted, not taking his eyes off the road. "Spit it out already."

"It's just that I've been wondering lately," Fran assumed the tone of a scientist who's had a couple of months to reflect upon the infinite mysteries of the creation and was now hoping to discuss the results with a kindred spirit. "Why did you have to kidnap me? I haven't done anything wrong to you guys, I'm pretty sure. I remember all the people I stole from, you know, and I've never seen you in my life."

"So you're a petty little thief too, aren't you, frogface?" The news seemed to have put Bel in a good mood for some reason. He always became giddy about the weirdest things.

Well, stealing was a useful skill, granted, but nothing to write home about. Everyone could manage a bit of pickpocketing. Squalo himself had never shamed away from it, for example. It was only proper, especially if you were stealing from unnecessary people and took care to choose a scapegoat beforehand.

Fran didn't appear to share Bel's joy though.

"Says the guy who whipped my cake while trying to stick those freaky knives in my back," he accused monotonously. "At least I only steal for really good reasons."

"I was hungry." Bel shrugged nonchalantly and flourished a knife. "That's the only reason I need."

"I still don't understand why you had to steal _me_ too, fallen prince. You could've just taken the cake if you craved chocolate so much."

Bel opened his mouth to reply, but Squalo decided he'd had it with the cake. The stupid thing was mentioned so often recently that it might as well become a ghost and come back to haunt them unless those two let it go.

"Shut the fuck up, you shitheads!" he barked. "Forget the friggin' cake, or I'll make sure you both have to live on bread and water until you die. And as for your idiotic question, brat, we have some business with you, so don't you start getting any smartass ideas. We don't like smartasses here. Any more shitty questions?"

"Why am I blindfolded?"

"Because it makes me feel better. Now shut _up_."

There was a thoughtful pause. Sadly it didn't last long enough for Squalo to enjoy the silence to the fullest.

"And tied up? My wrists hurt, you know. Why did you have to tie my hands like that?"

Squalo's fingers tightened on the wheel.

"That," he said as calmly as he possibly could, "is because you're so fucking special to us. We wanted to go easy on you."

"We did?" asked Bel incredulously. "Have you finally lost your last wits, Commander?"

"You call that easy?" Fran lamented. "You have some really crooked standards, stupid loud guy. What's hard then, according to you?"

Squalo sneered unpleasantly as he looked at the punk's reflection in the mirror.

"Hard's when we knock out your teeth so you don't give us any of this shitty backchat, break your legs so you can't fucking escape, stuff you in a sack so we don't have to look at your ugly mug and kick you some more because that's what we call education here. That clear to you now, brat?"

Bel giggled softly. Out of the corner of his eye, Squalo could see him rub his hands together with the air of a butcher selecting the best meat cleaver to chop up the cow. It was a sight to chill the blood of lesser creatures crawling upon the face of the earth and prompt them to move out to live on a different planet. Possibly, in a different galaxy.

"Oh," said Fran bleakly. What was visible of his face suggested he'd been expecting to hear something else. Squalo had no idea what that might be. He sure as hell wasn't going to ask though. "But you promised not to hit me anymore, you know."

"I damn well know, you fuckwit. And I'm even going to keep my word, no shit. Levi here is going to help me with that."

"Huh?" Levi stirred and blinked his eyes open. "Whu..?"

"Wake the hell up, you lazy asshole!" snapped Squalo, losing what little patience he still retained.

"What? Why?"

"Gag him. His squeaking is so fucking annoying it makes me want to rip his tongue out."

Fran, who had been sitting with his mouth slightly agape, closed it very quickly. Belphegor, on the other hand, was shaking with laughter. He looked so revoltingly overjoyed, Squalo found himself wishing he could gag the freak as well. It would do wonders for his nervous system and blood pressure. Not that he seriously considered holding on to the hope it might happen any time soon, certainly, but there was nothing wrong with just one moment of wishful thinking.

He smirked nastily.

"I do so want to keep my goddamn promise, brat." In the rear-view mirror he could see Levi fumble somewhere in the depths of his jacket and produce a dirty strip of cloth that might or might not have been a scarf a long time ago. Squalo nodded approvingly. "Now, you just sit tight and wait until our boss decides what to do with you. Got it?" Xanxus' opinion on the matter was something he wanted to hear himself and he hoped like hell the boss would be satisfied with their choice of an illusionist.

The little retard _was_ Mukuro Rokudo's apprentice, after all. An annoying, seemingly useless, squeaky piece of shit, yes, there was no denying the fact, but he was bound to know the tricks. That should count for something.

He _had_ to know those fucking tricks. Well, he'd better, or Xanxus would go ballistic.

"But I don't really want to meet your boss, you know!" A hint of panic made its appearance now. Barely detectable, since Fran was apparently incapable of using his voice to express emotions, but it was definitely there.

Squalo's lips peeled back from his teeth in a grin fit to scare the living daylight out of kids, civilians and small-caliber mafiosi. The insect knew who – or rather _what_ – their boss was. Rokudo must have dropped a hint or two, of the sort he was so fond of. Just as well the punk was feeling nervous.

It was one of the perks of having Xanxus as a boss, Squalo reflected, as he saw the high, foreboding walls of their headquarters swim into focus on the horizon. You could threaten someone with nothing but his name. You could scare most people shitless just mentioning the bastard offhandedly. You could promise the most repulsive and horrible manner of death and the most twisted tortures and no sensible human being would believe you actually meant to go through with them, but if you inserted Xanxus in the story, it worked miracles. Squalo had personally encountered idiots who literally forgot their names – and, sadly, their credit card pin number as well – when they realized they had a meeting with the boss of the Varia looming ahead of them.

In the eyes of practically everyone outside the Squad itself, Xanxus was more of a mythological monster than a human being. If one day he started breathing fire instead of just shooting it out of his hand Squalo was pretty damn sure people wouldn't be surprised in the slightest. And he was well-known for his unshakable belief that the law, including the much stricter law of the mafia world, was something that only ever happened to other people. He had about as much respect for it as he did for his adoptive father, which was an amount that could only be expressed with infinitesimals.

Xanxus made up his own law as he went along, and even that only when he could be bothered. Mostly however, he just plundered on disregarding the many inconveniences it caused for those unfortunate enough to find themselves in his immediate vicinity.

It was still puzzling though, all those crappy rumors. As far as Squalo knew – and his knowledge of the subject ran deeper than anyone else's – Xanxus never went out of his way to physically torture people. Oh, he might kick them, and bully them, and kill them without a hint of remorse, but he wasn't the type to indulge in anything overly creative, especially if it included having the guts of some lowly scumbag spiltall over his expensive boots. He hadn't even done any of that when he was younger, in the days before the Cradle Affair and shortly after, when _furious_ and _enraged_ couldn't even begin to describe his normal state of being. Why, Squalo wasn't certain. Perhaps, he was too lazy and apathetic for that, or he despised it for not being theatrical enough to suit his tastes. Maybe he simply lacked the required patience. It might even be all three rolled into one, who could tell, but Xanxus preferred to squash his enemies quickly and efficiently rather than suck the marrow out of their bones one by one.

It wasn't the fear of consequences that stopped him though. That would be just laughable. Xanxus had no use for such shit. He might actually have to look the word up in the dictionary if someone confronted him with the subject. No one ever dared to, of course, seeing how Xanxus was the type to answer questions once a year and only when the moon was exactly three quarters full and a big raven with one white wing could be seen stealing a silver spoon from a virgin.

Many people did wonder, though. And Squalo was in fact one of them.

Squalo knew more of his boss' secrets than any other living being on the planet – more than the rest of the Varia or the Ninth did – but he also knew there was shit about his bastard of a boss he had no idea about as well as _other_ shit he suspected even he didn't want to learn at all.

It wasn't that he was afraid or anything. Squalo couldn't really remember the last time he felt scared. Well, he admitted – very, very reluctantly and only in theory – that it might have happened once or twice a long time ago, probably before the Ice Age; but never again. It was just that some things about Xanxus made him feel a little _uneasy_. A bit out of his depth. Squalo didn't cherish that particular feeling, accustomed as he was to the idea that there was no depth he couldn't conquer and own. That being the case, he willingly chose to ignore the weirdness that occurred around his stupid boss and more often than not extended to involve the rest of the Varia.

One of the aforementioned mysteries was the ever-lasting question of why the hell the Vindice never, ever interfered with what Xanxus did. Squalo had spent half his life in the Varia, had seen and participated in what could only be labeled as horrible, atrocious crime punishable by any law including the one enforced by the Vindice, and yet he couldn't recall ever being accused of anything by the creeps in black. They never even bothered to materialize to issue threats or warnings, much less actually do any arresting and imprisoning. Nothing committed by the Varia including mass-murder and bloody massacres was apparently important enough to attract their attention. To think that the buggers were supposed to be omniscient, really. It was as if as far as the Vindice were concerned no such thing as the Vongola Independent Assassination Squad existed in the world.

Squalo considered it almost insulting. Well, he would if being ignored by the Vindice didn't come so damn useful.

There were those in the mafia who believed the impunity came with being a part of the Vongola Family, but Squalo knew better. They had had no trouble bottling up Mukuro Rokudo (may he drown in his fucking jar for raising such a crappy apprentice, Squalo added inwardly) and he was not simply a member of the Family, he was the Mist Guardian of the so-called Tenth. The Varia, on the other hand, had been carefully left alone when the goddamn Cradle Affair happened, a coup that would have changed the whole underworld, had it succeeded. Xanxus had unfortunately ended up frozen for eight years, true, but that was all. They hadn't even raised the question of dragging him into some cold prison cellar to make sure the ice never melted. It was as if the stupid boss had somehow obtained a carte blanche to act as he saw fit – as he pleased.

Xanxus had never confirmed those suspicions and neither had he commented on them on that one time when Squalo attempted, very cautiously, to voice them. The only answer he had deemed to give back then was a gruff _shut the fuck up_, _scumbag_ which was the sort of warm response Squalo had long since come to anticipate. However, he had sensed a slight, almost imperceptible change, a steely finality added suddenly to Xanxus' normal unfriendliness, and had decided not to push. It was only sensible, after all. Dead idiots had no use for the truth, no matter how dramatic.

Squalo shook his head, chasing away the memories, and realized he was back to the real world just on time to see that behind him, on the backseat of the car a very brief struggle between Levi and Fran ended in a complete triumph of the former.

Squalo rolled his eyes. He couldn't wait to see what the boss made of the brat, even if it was a barbecue. He wasn't going to waste his time guessing, though. You could never tell with Xanxus, and that was one of the reasons Squalo had never regretted his decision to follow the man.

He grinned wolfishly. At least the bastard made their lives _interesting_. He was the only one who could, really.

-/-

The first glimpse of the man that was soon to become Fran's new boss contained nothing but his boots. The soles of his boots, to be more precise.

Fran wasn't put out. With the Varia, it seemed only sensible to start the acquaintance with the boots, as they were probably the part he was going to meet the most often, if Squalo and the rest were anything to go by.

These were smug, self-important boots: big, heavy, but fashionable. They were clearly designed for trampling and stomping on people, or kicking them until they couldn't remember their own names. They were intended to be worn by someone who wanted to crush the puny hopes and dreams of his enemies under his foot and get a rush from it. They belonged on a man who knew that the only opinion worth mentioning was his own.

Also, they were rather dirty.

Well.

Less than a day had passed since the fateful moment when Squalo and Belphegor abducted Fran from W.W.'s cozy henhouse in Paris, and already the previously blurry and distorted image of the Varia he'd had in his mind had suffered drastic changes. Mostly, they were for the worse. Life was indeed full of unpleasant surprises and somehow, they all insisted on happening to Fran.

He wished he'd remembered earlier that Master had a questionable sense of humor and an even more questionable idea of what a normal human being should be like, so his comments and opinions could hardly be called reliable. Of course, Fran had never expected his life to take such a steep turn and land him into a situation where he would be forced to quickly adapt to the truth, much less on the pain of death; and it was obvious that putting one toe out of line with the Varia might be the last thing he did. The brief but bitter experience of taunting Squalo, back in the car, had demonstrated that a lapse of judgement could easily prove fatal.

He had no way of defeating even one of them head-on, that much was also clear. Not even if the others chose to remain on the sidelines and not interfere. In a real fight, each of them would easily overpower him and make him pay the price for his disobedience; it didn't require a genius to wrap his mind about the idea. Neither did he harbour any doubts that the aforementioned price would be terrible indeed. They seemed to be very big on punishments here.

It wasn't the end of everything, though. Mist had its own methods of getting what it wanted – quiet, sneaky methods – and there was no need to rush. True, even his illusionary tricks appeared to be useless against Squalo, but Squalo was just one man, no matter how loud and nasty. He wouldn't stick around forever, no way he possibly could. And the magic _had_ worked against Bel. It might work against the hairy guy with piercings as well, with any luck.

No, if he wanted to survive long enough to escape, if he truly wanted to get away – and he did – he had to learn to read these psychopaths. He had to bide his time. Surely there were behavioral patterns and all kinds of ways to lull them into believing they had scared him into subservience. Belphegor, for example, didn't strike Fran as a particularly deep thinker; and Squalo looked like a guy who liked his fighting and only bothered with the rest of the world if he absolutely couldn't avoid it.

There was hope. All he really needed to do was figure out what kind of man Xanxus was, the rest would probably go more or less smoothly. In any organization, the person in charge was the measure of things, the one who laid down rules, even unwritten ones, and set the standards. If he could trick Xanxus, his chances of escaping would skyrocket and shine with a million colors. Perhaps Master would lend him a helping hand, too, in his own fashion. Fran didn't know exactly what Mukuro's ultimate goal was where _he_ was concerned, but he supposed there must be a very good reason, considering that Master had gone as far as to saddle W.W. with the job of looking after him.

Cautiously, Fran peered past the boots and up at his new boss who was lounging – there was no better word to describe it – slouched in a great ornate arm-chair, his feet resting on the edge of the table. Fran met his gaze bravely.

Immediately, he wished he hadn't, because it was the first time Fran experienced what he would later come to call The Look. He hadn't been expecting The Look.

He_ had_ been expecting threats and kicks, and the Flame of Wrath, and maybe even the infamous X-Guns, or whatever they were called, if he got truly unlucky. He had been ready to see a raging monster, or a vengeful maniac, or a fire-spitting demon. He had anticipated something ugly, repulsive and horrifying.

Instead, Xanxus was almost insultingly normal – just another Italian man, with unkempt black hair and olive skin. Even the scar crawling across the left side of his face didn't stand out too much, despite its considerable size.

The boss of the Varia looked like a hybrid between a slightly civilized pirate and a highwayman, but there was nothing frightening about it. It just proved he was a tremendous show-off. The feathers and beads he wore at the nape of his neck only accentuated the similarity.

It was the look in his eyes that made shivers run down Fran's spine, and Fran didn't scare easily, not after several years of Mukuro's tutelage.

It seemed like a bored, disinterested look, that very nearly bordered on sleepy. Yet there was a detached sort of curiosity too, and an idle wondering, of the kind exhibited by the ancient roman emperors when they ordered to throw someone to the lions to alleviate the afternoon boredom; a lethargic fascination, as if he were looking at the world from behind a veil, or from beneath the water.

And deep down, so far below it could barely be seen, like a river of liquid fire, was rage. It was so real Fran could very nearly _see_ it, which was by all means ridiculous.

Obviously, Xanxus was not a happy bunny. In fact he was a catastrophe waiting to happen. A highly impatient catastrophe searching for any excuse at all to crash down on everyone around and bury them forever.

Fran froze, trying to estimate his chances of survival and despairing quickly.

Finally, Xanxus spoke. His voice came out as a deep, low growl.

"That's him?" The question was directed at Squalo, whose presence Fran could still feel somewhere behind him, lingering in the doors, waiting eagerly for the show to start, perhaps; but Xanxus' gaze, flat and calm, remained fixed on the illusionist. His eyes were dark red. It was not a nice colour.

"That's right, boss." Squalo's voice held no trace of servility, but there was something else in it, an odd sort of respect and deference, perhaps. Deference to the superior power. "That's the little shit."

"Fran's the name," Fran piped up, unhappy about being left out of the conversation that might very well determine his future. "If you don't mind," he added because they showed no reaction. Xanxus continued to look at him impassively, and Squalo snorted derisively from his position by the door.

Fran deeply regretted that he hadn't cared to extract more information out of Master. Mukuro despised the mafia, so many of his remarks were by default on the derogatory side, and his general outlook on other people may be a little twisted and unorthodox as well, but he was perceptive and had a keen eye for detail, enabling him to notice things hidden deep beneath the undisturbed surface of the outward appearance. And he was an excellent judge of character, there was no denying the fact.

Well, it was to late for that now. Unless...

Concentrating as hard as he could without going comatose, Fran reached out, with his mind, feeling blindly for Master's familiar presence. It used to be quite easy to find Mukuro, possibly because apart from possessing some poor unfortunate soul he usually had nothing better to do than to roam the collective endless mindscape. Being stuffed into a glass jar offered few entertainment options, after all.

This time, there was no answer and no trace to be followed.

Swallowing hard, Fran tried again. And again. Nothing happened. By the looks of it, Master might as well be dead.

As his eyes focused on the sight before him, Fran felt his heart sink.

Xanxus was still watching him, red eyes unreadable, but a corner of his mouth curled up ever so slightly. It was barely there, a sketch of an expression rather than the real thing, but it seemed to have changed his face completely. Where moments ago there had been flat, lazy indifference was now gleeful malice. It was so shamelessly open, so full of _understanding _that Fran knew immediately all hope was lost.

"He won't answer you, trash." Xanxus' voice wasn't really triumphant, but the note of calm certainty spoke volumes. "Give up."

"How do you know I was trying to call someone?" If anything, Fran thought, he could at least try to find out how much the man knew about illusions and mind tricks. Surely, he wouldn't miss such a rich opportunity to brag–

"I _know_." Xanxus was apparently skilled at the secret technique of delivering each curt word like a blow to the diaphragm. His eyes shifted to Squalo who was still leaning against the door. "You. Get him settled in. We're keeping this scum."

Keeping, thought Fran, panicking. They were keeping him, like a dog! He had been almost sure they wanted information on Mukuro, or perhaps some obscure data on his illusionary techniques, and it was alright, for the given value of the word. Well, dealing with the lot of them was nowhere close to a walk in the park, but it was still something Fran could understand. But now they were going to keep him? An avalanche of terrible forebodings filled Fran to the point where he suspected steam might begin to come out of his ears.

He was not the only one who was displeased.

"What?" Squalo sounded almost scandalized – a fact that did nothing to improve the sound of his voice. "The fuck are you saying? Aren't you gonna test him? I thought you wanted an illusionist to replace Mammon, you bastard. If I had known you'd be so fucking happy with just some random shit, I would've just picked one off the street here in Italy!"

To replace Mammon? Fran had no inkling as to who Mammon was or, possibly, had been since he was obviously no longer around, but the word_ replace_ promised a trip into the lands he would definitely hate to visit. Terrible, savage lands.

"Shuddup, fuckface. Your voice's pissing me off. If you'd done what you just said, I would have shot you in the head." Xanxus gave his Second-in-Command a scornful look. "But since by some fucking mistake you managed to bring the right one, consider yourself lucky. Now get out of here before I change my mind. And pick up your trash or I'll wipe the floor with both your asses." His gaze slid back to Fran again, momentarily, and then he closed his eyes and slouched even more in his great big chair.

Never in his life had Fran felt so totally, overwhelmingly ignored. That, he thought, was exactly how it must feel to be divided by zero. You weren't just insignificant, you just got erased from the universe.

A hand gripped him by the scruff of his neck.

"What're you standing there for, shitty brat?" Squalo growled somewhere behind him. "Get moving. I'll talk to that bastard later." The last part obviously referred to Xanxus, who didn't even stir to show that he'd heard the words. The fact that someone armed with a big, sharp sword was glaring daggers at him produced no apparent effect. Of course, Xanxus was probably armed as well.

_Maybe he's gone to sleep already_, thought Fran with more than a little envy. He wished he could crawl somewhere and go to sleep too. His world was turning into an utter chaos and there was no end in sight to his torments. He had been kidnapped, beaten and dragged into another country. His cake had been viciously expropriated. Also, to add insult to injury, he'd been abandoned by Mukuro, and, as always, it simply had to happen at the worst moment of his life. He wished he could fall asleep right there, and then maybe when he woke up he'd find himself back in Paris, in his room in W.W.'s apartment instead of this crazy place full of homicidal maniacs. He could go and raid the fridge...

Squalo was dragging him through the door back into the shadowy corridor, cursing vehemently despite the fact that Fran was offering no resistance whatsoever, when Xanxus spoke again.

This time, to Fran.

"And you, scum." There was a pause, but not the kind used to gain some time to formulate better. This was a pause meant to _give_ time to get properly scared. Fran used it to its full extent. "I trust you have more imagination than that retarded lowlife you call Master. For your own good, try to fucking use it in your pathetic attempts to escape. That's a warning."

"Eh..." Fran hesitated, craning his neck to look back at Xanxus, hoping against hope it had been only a creepy joke, because if it hadn't he was definitely in deep shit _and_ going further down. But he had a depressing feeling Xanxus wasn't exactly a funny guy.

Squalo had also halted in mid-step and was now frowning at his boss with a strange expression on his face, an almost inconceivable mix of incredulity, disgust and, the worst of all, admiration. Just how crazy were they all here?

"Why?" Fran finally asked. He simply couldn't think of anything better. He hardly expected to get an answer, though.

"Because I'm fucking sick of all you idiots doing the same old shit all over again. So, if you plan to repeat the same stupid mistakes, at least try not to suck as much. Remember that your worthless little life depends on it. And now, get the hell out of my sight."

* * *

A/N: Poor Fran, lol. And no, it's not over yet. ;) Speaking of which, I think I'll write more KHR after I'm done with this story. I'd like to use more characters and get a really, really twisted plot. Well, we'll see.

Thanks for reviewing, and please do it again!


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

_(in which riddles are solved and several people are not amused)_

-/-

"You." Squalo stabbed Lussuria in the chest with a finger violently, making the latter stagger a few paces back. "See the fucking door? You see it?"

Lussuria did. It was big and thick and made of old oak, and it was right in front of him. It was a very obvious door, if rather ugly. Anyone who wasn't blind would be unable to miss it.

"What about it, Squ?" What Lussuria could _not_ see was why Squalo had to ask an apparently stupid question. Sure, the swordsman often complained that people around him were on the same level of intelligence as the dirt stuck to the sole of his boot, so he might as well talk to the dirt because at least it didn't get cheeky; but a door was always a door. One didn't have to be clever to notice it.

Squalo emitted a sound that might be called a snort except that it would be stretching the term too far. It carried a lot of emotion in its wordless splendor: Lussuria was positive he could discern a healthy dose of anger, the background impatience and frustration that made part of Squalo's default state of being, and a great deal of irritation that seemed to be boiling so vigorously it made Lussuria want to back away in case Squalo exploded. He looked worse for the wear too, tired and in need of sleep _and_ aware of the fact that he wouldn't be getting any in the foreseeable future. And Lussuria knew that a tired Squalo was ten times as snappish as the normal one, and that was saying something, as even the normal one was usually a trial.

Lussuria wondered if that whole door conversation could be some sort of unfunny joke on Squalo's part. The poor guy had never been able to get in touch with the sense of humor. Well, definitely not with the same sense of humor that other people might ever come to appreciate. The only other person alive to rival him in this department was the boss.

"Heeey! Quit spacing out on me, fucking faggot! You listen to what I say and lose this dumbass smirk or I'll cut out your liver and make you eat it!" Ten times as snappish _and_ ten times as loud. Lussuria wondered if his ears were bleeding. There was a ringing in his head as if someone had used it as a church bell. Repeatedly.

"Please don't shout, Squ!" he said reproachfully. "I can hear you perfectly well with my beautiful ears. And I can see your door too. Is there something special about it you want me to know?" Were they not the Varia, Lussuria would probably even allow himself to hope a pleasant surprise or maybe a present might be waiting for him inside. Things being what they were, he only prayed it wasn't an exhibition of severed heads on pikes.

Squalo scowled darkly, jerking his thumb in the direction of the door.

"I put some valuable shit there," he announced gruffly. "And it stinks."

Lussuria's carefully painted eyebrows flew up. He could never quite master the fine art of distinguishing between Squalo Trying To Be Cryptic and Squalo Being Too Arrogant To Explain Properly. To a casual observer, there was hardly any difference at all.

He opted for the golden middle.

"Isn't it okay for the shit to stink, Squalo?" he asked in what he considered to be his best neutral voice.

For a moment, Squalo just stared at him hard, mouth twisted in a scowl, eyes narrowed and icy cold. He seemed to have been rendered speechless, and it was not a good sign. Lussuria's personal experience stated with all certainty that unless Squalo was dead or unconscious, his rare silences were only there to herald the oncoming explosion. They simply meant he had too much to say and was struggling to find the appropriate words – or rather, since it was Squalo, words awful enough to describe exactly how he felt.

_Oh no_, Lussuria prayed to whoever or whatever might be listening, _don't let him be having a bad day please. Not agai__–_

There was an all-too-familiar sound of air being cut by something unmistakably sharp, and next thing Lussuria knew, there was a sword hovering less than two inches away from his left ear, gleaming ominously. Somewhere on the other end of the sword, Squalo exhaled through gritted teeth.

"Hey, faggot," he rasped in a low voice. "It's been a long, shitty night. _Very_ fucking long. And I wasted it prancing around Europe, surrounded by complete morons all the damn time. And before that – you hear me, faggot? – before that, I spent one hell of a day breathing dust in Mammon's shitty lair because no one has cleaned there since Mussolini!"

"But Squalo!" Lussuria protested. "You're being unreasonable! How was I supposed to know you'd want to go in there? If only you had told me in advance I wou–"

But there was no stopping Squalo once he got started. He was famous for it.

"...and I had all those useless books and folders and crap falling on my goddamn head _and_ Prince the Creeper for company, all because our retarded boss decided that he needed a friggin' illusionist _now, _just like that!" he snarled, voice getting steadily louder with every syllable. He shook his sword in what Lussuria considered to be a dangerous proximity to his ear. "And the illusionists all suck!"

"I think you are exaggerating a little, Squ." Lussuria tried to lean away from the blade, but it only prompted Squalo to move closer. "They can't all be that bad. Mammon was alright, even you have to admit it. _And please watch what you're doing with this_!"

"Huh?" Squalo glanced at his sword as if seeing it for the first time in his life, then stabbed it angrily at the unfortunate door. It sank into the wood as if it were butter.

"Squalo!" Lussuria exclaimed nervously. He had noticed blue flame dancing merrily along the edge of the blade and wasn't thrilled. Honestly, whoever had taught this guy it was alright to wield highly destructive weapons indoors? He was almost as bad as the boss.

Almost, but not quite. At least nothing was on fire yet. Lussuria wished dearly his colleagues would acquire some manners, even though he didn't raise his hopes very high.

There was a muffled squeak from behind the door.

"What!" barked Squalo, pulling the sword out and waving it in the air in obvious exasperation. "You fucking shut up there! I've had it up to here with you, little dickhead!"

Lussuria seized the chance and moved away swiftly, putting a relatively safe distance between himself and the danger, then cocked his head to one side.

"Ah? What was that?"

"That," said Squalo, scowling so hard it was painful to look at, "is the shit I was talking about. Also, it's our new illusionist. Fucking rejoice." He spat on the floor, then caught Lussuria's accusing stare and added. "And wipe that pathetic look off you face, you're not my mother. It makes me sick."

Lussuria heaved a sigh and reminded himself who he was talking to.

"So you _have_ brought back a present, haven't you, Squ?" he said, straining to sound pacifying and cheerful. Lussuria was quite proud of the fact that he could pull off cheerful in almost any situation and he was very good at pretending; but it didn't mean he _liked_ being insulted. Not all the time anyway.

"What I've brought back's a halfwit with the attention span of a dazzled caterpillar and social awareness of a hermit crab," Squalo's face darkened, but his voice became calmer and even took on a thoughtful tone. "Whatever, faggot. It's none of your business. The little freak stays."

Lussuria pouted. No one ever told him anything in this squad. No one wanted to share!

"But what about the boss?" he asked anxiously. "Does he know? Does he?" It would be a disgrace if he had to deal with the consequences of yet another fit of rage on such a nice day. Xanxus hated being the last to know.

"He does." All of a sudden, Squalo didn't seem to be in the mood to talk any more.

"And... what does he say?"

"The bastard approves."

"Really? Well, isn't it just wonderful?" Lussuria blinked behind his dark glasses. That was all? But he wanted details! "But Squ! What does he _say_?"

"Will you fuck off? He says we're keeping the trash. Happy now?"

"You're being mean to me again, Squalo! On purpose, too! Come on, I'm dying to know everything, did the boss–"

"Heey, Lussuria! If you want to know his precious opinion so fucking much, go chat with him yourself. I'll bet you my sword and my other hand he's still up in his office, hitting tequila bottles. I've got work to do, unlike you lazy assholes. _As usually_."

"Oh fine, fine." A talkative Xanxus was even harder to imagine than a good-mannered Squalo. Lussuria gave up. "What do you want me to do about, ah, the illusionist?"

"Nothing." Squalo rubbed the back of his hand across his face. "Just make sure no one goes in there until I return."

"When are you going to return?" Lussuria wiggled his eyebrows questioningly. Squalo was indeed one of those pro-active people who, if they were dropped in the middle of a desert, would immediately come up with at least a dozen things that needed to be completed before nightfall. It was as if he had a self-assigned production quota. "I mean, you keep saying you've got lots and lots to do..."

Squalo glowered at him darkly. "Soon."

"Ah. How soon is soon?" He knew it was a wrong thing to say, especially to a tired, already irritated Squalo, but he couldn't possibly sit near this ugly door for the rest of the day. He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

Instead, Squalo just pinched the bridge of his nose and rolled his eyes. "Stick around and you'll find out eventually, faggot. I don't have to explain shit to you." And he turned on his heels, ready to leave, apparently certain that his orders would be carried through.

"But Squ dear?" Lussuria called after him. "Aren't we supposed to welcome him home? His new home, that is?"

"I said no!" Squalo barked impatiently, whirling around to face Lussuria again. He took a deep breath and continued brusquely. "Listen, the little freak knows his stuff. Worked on Bel alright, anyway." It was obvious that he was more than a little reluctant to give praise to the invisible illusionist. "And you suck at distinguishing real from fake just as much, Lussuria. I don't want to chase the brat all over the place again just because you want to play at family or some other shit like that. And I _will_ have to, unless you expect our trash of a boss to get his ass off the goddamn chair and do it himself."

They shared a moment of understanding. Xanxus had a certain fate reserved for those who tried to dump their workload on him, and it was a grim fate indeed.

"I really don't think our boss is the type to chase anything _or_ anyone, Squ," said Lussuria finally.

"Hah! Too damn right he isn't! He expects to have everything delivered to him on a silver platter!" Squalo aimed a kick at the door again before turning away once more and setting off at his usual brisk pace.

It occurred to Lussuria that something was a bit off about the whole situation. Certainly, Squalo tended to jump at every opportunity to bitch, but it was usually just general bitching. Today, however, he seemed to have a specific reason to be angry at the boss and Lussuria suspected it was connected to the task of finding a new illusionist. He couldn't imagine what that might be though, seeing that now that the job was done it shouldn't even be a problem.

The problem, Lussuria reminded himself with a sigh as he watched the Chief Commander of the Varia storm away down the corridor, muttering threats and curses under his breath and occasionally slamming a fist into the wall to vent out, the greatest problem of all was that any kind of Squalo could turn into a Pissed Squalo in a blink of an eye.

Lussuria wrung his hands dramatically, uncaring of the fact that nobody was around to witness and appreciate the performance. It was an old habit with roots running deeper than those of an ancient oak, and happened all by itself most of the time. The Varia was his whole life and his only home, and he strove as hard as he could to make it resemble a family. He knew it was a feat next to impossible when it had to include a bunch of people who wouldn't understand the concept even if he handed them a manual, but he also knew he wasn't getting another chance. And it was still much, much better that any other option he had been able to come up with so far. However, it was sometimes unspeakably frustrating – not to mention exhausting – to realize he was the only one putting in any effort. The others all apparently believed family was some weird shit meant for pussies, or at least that was what Squalo grumbled whenever Lussuria tried to make them see his point.

Ah well. Maybe this new illusionist boy was a friendly soul? Unlikely, considering that Xanxus and Squalo had been the ones to pluck him out of who knew where, but Lussuria was dead set on hoping for the best, if only to make a difference in comparison with the horrible doom-and-gloom attitude exhibited by everyone else.

He rubbed his hands together. Unless his memory was going, there was still some of his new wonderful soup back in the main kitchen. And it was his own recipe too. Sadly, he had only managed to test it on Belphegor. Squalo, an unimaginative simpleton that he was, had refused to try as much as a spoonful – such a shame! – and Lussuria wasn't suicidal enough to give it to the boss just yet. The memory of Xanxus shoving him head-first into the bowl full of his previous concoction still stood out vividly in his mind.

Lussuria eyed the locked door for a moment, a finger pressed to his lips in a manner that, in his opinion, made him look sophisticated. Surely Squalo had been exaggerating when he said the boy's illusions were all that powerful. Squalo exaggerated all the time, it was in-built into his character. Bel must have gotten distracted, that was all. He often did. Besides, Lussuria thought, pouting, _some people_ were simply incapable of wrapping their head around the idea of someone else's potential usefulness. S_ome people_ needed to take measures against their own superiority complex because it was getting alarmingly overblown.

Ah, seriously. No harm could come of a little hospitality. They needed more of it here.

Lussuria floated up to the door and knocked on it.

"Coo-ee!" he sang happily. "Anybody home?"

The silence on the other side seemed to become deeper, as if even the spiders and rats – there was bound to be plenty of them in there, the room having been unused for years – had gone quiet and now waited with bated breath.

"Ah, I see you're sulking!" Lussuria crooned, quite unfazed by the lack of response. "It's understandable, but darling, you do so need to get over it! Let's try and be a little nicer to each other!"

There was still no answer.

"It's not like you can leave, sweetums. You're staying with us from now on. We're your new family."

The silence grew hostile.

"Aren't you hungry, dear? I've got some delicious soup, by the way, so if you'd like to taste it, just let me know, I'm right here! Okay?"

The level of hostility shot up and mixed with incredulity on the way. Lussuria sighed, pulled out his box weapon and quickly applied his Varia Sun Ring to it.

"You stay here and don't let anyone in," he chirped to his box peacock as soon as it materialized. "I'm going to the kitchen to get some hot soup! There's no call to starve the poor soul, whatever Squalo may say."

He swanned up the corridor in the direction of the stairs. There was no way the boy wouldn't like his amazing soup. And since Bel was still alive and kicking, it was obviously safe to eat as well. Safe and perfectly healthy.

Anything with snakes' heads in it was bound to be, after all.

-/-

Xanxus, the boss of the Varia, was a man of many talents and skills of which only some were known to those around him. An extremely keen sense of hearing was one such talent, especially useful when coupled with a well-honed ability to listen. And contrary to what his appearance and behavior suggested, nobody could listen better than Xanxus when he put his mind to it. It was just that unlike the majority of the idiots populating the planet he didn't automatically assume that listening meant agreeing. He'd never been too good at agreeing anyway.

It was amazing how much time and effort could be saved, for example, if he just let his enemies run their dirty mouths for a while without interrupting. The information was all there, in the pauses and intonations and gaps, and reading between the lines wasn't the most complicated of sciences. It wasn't necessary to pull out anyone's teeth and fingernails to extract the precious knowledge, always a bonus for those who preferred to get the job done with the minimum amount of shit and blood splashed on the floor. Xanxus had nothing against getting his hands dirty in a metaphorical way. He just didn't want to physically touch any trash unless he couldn't avoid it. He employed other people for that. Occasionally one or two of them even managed to live long enough to get paid for what they did.

Xanxus knew that many different ways of listening existed in the world, each to suit its own purpose, and he had taken pains to become good at all of them. There was listening to the actual _words_, no matter if they were all rotten lies, because that was exactly what the scumbags wanted him to hear and believe. There was listening to what they wanted to tell him but couldn't, for various reasons including blackmail and plain old fear – fear of _him_ more often than not. And of course there was the aggressive listening which was Xanxus' personal favorite. He really had the knack for that one. The only thing it required was sitting still, staring the speaker straight in the eye and making a very fine point of paying attention to every damn syllable pronounced by the pathetic trash. Xanxus practiced it daily on all of his subordinates starting with Squalo and it never failed to yield satisfying results.

And Xanxus was all about getting results. _That_ was important. The rest was shit.

This time however, he was simply listening to the sound of footsteps coming from the corridor on the other side of the door. They were still faint but getting louder and louder, which meant he was probably about to have guests. None of his lowly scumbags ever came up here for a walk.

As well they didn't.

In his right hand, Xanxus weighed the new sniper rifle he had been examining – a presumably top-secret military project that no one in the world was supposed to know about – and chose to ignore the sound. He wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone, and he couldn't be bothered to beat them up, although the latter could change any time. Even in the Varia, there were always pathetic fuckups who were incapable of getting it through their thick heads that disturbing him might be the last thing they did; and some _other_ fuckups, no less pathetic, who never seemed to understand it was their bloody responsibility to do something about this situation.

And anyway, how many morons did he have to kill to make them memorize the proper way to cook steak? It was just one fucking recipe; how hard could it be? One would expect that even a complete retard would absorb some knowledge by now, thought Xanxus grimly, forgetting that he never gave anyone a second chance and so far, no one had learned to cook steak from the grave.

Maybe the scumbag, whoever he was, would use his small brain for a change and fuck off.

As the sound of the footsteps drew nearer still, though, Xanxus realized it wouldn't happen. By now, he could identify the scumbag.

There was a knock on the door – not too loud, but definitely not timid – and Belphegor poked his head into the room, grinning.

"Boss?"

Xanxus pondered the two possibilities that occurred to him. The first one was to shoot Bel using the rifle. He liked the idea. It would be killing two birds with one stone: he'd get rid of the trash and he'd test the new weapon and find out if it really was what it was cracked up to be (probably not).

The second one was to let Bel get on with whatever he wanted to say. That would imply listening to the insect.

After a moment of hesitation, Xanxus chose the second option. Unfortunately, he still needed Belphegor around for a while longer. There was no one to replace him with. Yet.

"Trash," he said to acknowledge his subordinate's undesired presence.

Bel's grin widened as he sidled into the room. He looked disgustingly happy, almost elated. Xanxus made a note to himself to ensure that, starting tomorrow, the scumbag would get more assignments and fewer reasons to wander around the estate, giggling madly.

Not letting go off the rifle – it always made him feel better to hold something that could bring death and destruction – he reached out with his free hand and picked a wine glass from the desk where it had been peacefully leaving unsightly dark stains on a letter from Iemitsu Sawada. It didn't matter. Xanxus had already familiarized himself with the contents and made all the necessary conclusions, one of them being the decision to not answer the trash. It was the usual sickening blather about unseen enemies plotting, spies lurking in shadows and storm clouds gathering over the heads of the unsuspecting members of the Vongola Family. Xanxus, who suspected everything and everyone on general principle, found the letter idiotic. _Of course_, there were scum plotting against them. That was how you knew you were doing it right – your enemies were supposed to be pissed off and unhappy.

Xanxus sipped his wine, then returned the glass on the desk, carefully placing it exactly on top of Iemitsu's signature. He leveled Belphegor with a look.

"What the hell do you want, trash?"

"Just dropped by to chat?"

"Fuck off," suggested Xanxus calmly. "I'm not in the mood."

"Actually, boss, I have a question."

Xanxus stared at him in a decidedly unfriendly manner. Fucking inquisitive minds. Fucking questions again. Why did _he_ have to bother with this shit?

"Ask Squalo," he grumbled finally, scowling. "Whatever the hell it is, ask Squalo."

"It's about our new illusionist." Bel donned a sullen, almost pouting look. It was such a Lussuria-ish expression that – same as with Lussuria himself – Xanxus felt his hands itch to punch the little trash square in the face. A lot of patience was required to deal with Bel, and Xanxus had an extremely limited supply.

And he never thought it was his problem.

"Ask _Squalo_," he repeated in a deceptively quiet voice. "And if I have to say this again, I'll shoot your head off."

"I've already asked him." Bel backed away prudently, positioning himself closer to the exit, obviously hoping it would give him enough time to jump out into the corridor if the worst happened. "He says I'm the one who's going to have to work with the newbie because he's the replacement for Mammon."

"Your point, trash."

"I don't like him. I don't want to work with him. He's annoying. I can't see why it has to be me anyway."

Eyes narrowing, Xanxus fought the urge to roast the insolent little fuck on the spot. He could feel the familiar heat spread through his right hand, a foreshadowing of the Flame of Wraith ready to spring into existence and bring devastation. He almost wished Belphegor would be stupid enough to try and add something else, to announce that he was a prince and would do as he pleased, perhaps. Anything at all would serve as an excuse now. Leaning forward ever so slightly and flexing his fingers, Xanxus waited.

Sadly enough, even Bel, a useless piece of trash though he was, possessed enough brains to realize he'd gone too far. The brat froze, and although it was hard to tell with his hair covering half his face, his unseen eyes seemed to take in Xanxus' posture, darted to his hand, already beginning to glow with the orange light of the Flame, and finally focused on his face.

Bel closed his mouth, then opened it again and said, in a voice that sounded only a little strained.

"But if that's _your_ decision, boss, I've got no problem with it."

Xanxus slouched in the chair again, disappointed. Very briefly, he considered setting Bel on fire anyway, but his heart wasn't in it. The world was too fucking boring already for him to resort to such a cheap trick. And even if he did, it would only amuse him for about five minutes and then he'd have to go through the whole tedious business of replacing one of the chief officers. The trash just wasn't worth the trouble.

Picking the glass up again, Xanxus half-closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at Bel and evaluated the situation. He hadn't bothered to issue any orders regarding the matter, but as far as he could see, there was nothing wrong with Squalo's decision. The little knife-loving scum sucked at working alone anyway. He had taken to leaving a trail like an elephant trampling through the jungle ever since Mammon bit the dust.

Of course, Xanxus mused, if he overruled Squalo's order it would piss the idiot off like nobody's business, and that was always entertaining. On the other hand, if he confirmed it, _Bel _would be pissedoff, and Bel was already here. And he was being annoying as hell.

"Do as you're told, trash."

Belphegor looked neither surprised nor put out. Instead, he actually beamed.

"So does that mean I'm the one in charge?"

Xanxus remembered Fran's retarded look, and his idiotic prattle and, most importantly, his laughable conviction that he would be able to outsmart everyone and escape. Rokudo's little lapdog hadn't said it out loud, of course, but Xanxus knew anyway because he'd listened very carefully to what the brat had kept to himself. People were too fucking easy to read most of the time, especially when they thought they had a perfect poker face.

Of course, just because Fran was so transparent didn't mean he wouldn't cause any trouble, and Xanxus despised dealing with unimportant stuff. He could certainly break Fran's spine himself, but what would be the point of being the boss if he still ended up doing menial labor? He kept the other scum around for that.

"You're in charge," he growled at Belphegor and, as soon as a wide grin began to spread across the bastard's face, he added. "You'd better not fuck up, _Bel_. If you do, I'll flay you alive and use your worthless hide for decoration."

For a moment, Belphegor's expression was blank, as if he were calculating pros and cons and, wisely enough, having doubts. Then the loony grin returned. "Sure, boss. Don't you worry, soon the frog will look more like Mammon than you can imagine."

Xanxus' first instinct was to ask how the hell Fran had become a frog, of all things, but he suppressed the urge. It would only prolong the discussion and, quite possibly, bring to the surface some stupid joke that was only funny as long as it floated inside Belphegor's delirious head. It wasn't like Xanxus gave a damn what his dogs called each other, provided they did as they were told. Provided they could boast of enough brains and skill to cope with the job.

As he watched Bel's retreating back, Xanxus took note of the fact that Belphegor, who was notorious for being the laziest of his subordinates, had decided to actually volunteer to do something. He must have a serious reason, and Xanxus had several theories as to what it might be, but now wasn't the moment to mull over the issue, and he filed it away for future use. Still, he was quite content with the result of the conversation. Initially, he had been planning to make Squalo responsible for Fran's behavior. It wasn't the most original plan, but it had a merit of being simple and it worked all the time. However, if Belphegor wanted to be useful, whatever his real reasons, why bother to stop him? Xanxus certainly couldn't care less about whose head he was going to bash if things went wrong.

Pulling the door open, Bel suddenly paused and turned to look back at Xanxus from under his long golden fringe.

"Hey, boss?"

"You're still here?"

"Not really. You knew, didn't you?"

Xanxus kept silent. A fucking blabbermouth that he was, Bel would undoubtedly go on regardless.

He did. "You picked this Fran yourself, right? You knew it'd be him all along, otherwise you would have tested his abilities to see if he was really the best we could get. You knew he was Rokudo's apprentice too, I bet."

Xanxus let his eyes close. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over. The scumbag of a prince could talk to himself if he wanted.

"Did you have the keys to Mammon secret archive? Because you know, I can recall seeing the word _Rokudo_ on the frogface's file, and I'm pretty sure it was your handwriting. I have a very good memory." There was a sound of muffled giggling. "Unlike some people."

Xanxus yawned, not even bothering to cover his mouth with a hand.

"Squalo bitched for hours that you'd sent him on a wild goose hunt and never told him anything. What were you going to do to him if he'd brought back a wrong guy?"

Too bad he hadn't, thought Xanxus regretfully, the sharkbait would've made a perfect target for his new rifle.

"How very cruel of you, boss."

Hm. Like he needed praise from any insects.

Bel laughed softly, triumphantly. "I can't wait to see _Commander Squal_o's face when he finds out."

That was a good point. Xanxus was looking forward to it too.

As the heavy door swung shut behind Belphegor, cutting off his annoying laughter, Xanxus opened his eyes lazily and examined the glass he was still holding in his hand. He was glad he had refrained from breaking it on Bel's head – for the sake of the wine, of course, not for Bel's sake. This wine was some good shit. A nice change from tequila, if nothing else. Xanxus finished the glass in one gulp and rose up unhurriedly, kicking the chair back as he did.

So Belphegor at least still remembered how to use his brains. How very uplifting. One of these days, he might even become competent enough for a job that required actual thinking. Not yet, of course, Xanxus added to himself as he threw a jacket over his shoulders and checked his guns, not until the brat learned that just because he'd come to understand something it wasn't always a good idea to open his big mouth and yack about it.

Locking the door to his office, Xanxus made his way down the stairs. It was almost night.

It was time to head out.

* * *

A/N: evil Xanxus is evil :D

Thank you all again for reading, and please leave me a review, I want to know what you think! :)


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

_(in which mercy and cruelty are indistinguishable from each other)_

-/-

There was no place like home.

Squalo, emerging from his private bathroom, halted in mid-step and scowled. The hot shower had helped him to temporarily put out of his mind the shit that had been happening all around lately, but now that he was back in the world of problems waiting to be solved and work waiting to be done, his irritation seemed to be coming back to him at the speed of an approaching train.

His long hair was dripping wet, as he had proven unable to locate even one towel, and the marble floor was cold under his bare feet, and the only clean item of home clothing he'd managed to unearth in his pandemonium of a room was a very old pair of pants, faded black and dating at least five years back. Squalo had had no idea he possessed them before today, and he wasn't that sure he liked them, but the rest of his clothes were either dirty and blood-stained or torn in various places, or, in some cases, both, and lay bundled in a gigantic heap in the darkest corner of the room. Besides, old pants were better than no pants at all, and so he'd put them on.

After a moment of hesitation, Squalo chose not to open the adjacent door that led to his office – he had no desire to see the piles of paperwork that had undoubtedly grown to touch the ceiling during the time of his absence. He hated paperwork. He also suspected that Xanxus was well aware of the fact and that it was precisely the reason the stupid boss delegated most of the crap to him. It was twice as unfair because Squalo was perhaps the only person alive who knew that Xanxus himself was, in fact, frighteningly efficient when it came to paperwork. No one in the right mind would ever believe it – he looked like he might have trouble composing even one sentence without using words like _fuck_ and _trash_ as a conjunction. But despite that, the bastard seemed to possess a hidden radar of sorts that enabled him to look at the shittiest document full of evasive bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo for five minutes and know exactly where the catch was. The trick was to make Xanxus and the paperwork finally meet face-to-face, but once this obstacle remained behind, miracles happened. It was Squalo's opinion that Xanxus had been destined to be a brilliant lawyer but due to a terrible karmic accident had ended up with a the Flame of Wrath and a temper of a hungry, impatient dragon.

Not that it impeded him from being nasty on a professional level, of course. Unfortunately.

Putting off the much hated encounter with the written word till later, Squalo surveyed the bedroom again. It was hardly an awe-inspiring view. Apart from the aforementioned heap, there were things strewn all across the floor, an old pair of boots near, or rather, under the bed (a _Beretta_ was stuffed into one of them), and the boots he'd kicked off when he returned an hour ago were lying by the door; and there was a dagger embedded into the wall over the mantelpiece (he'd been looking for that dagger all over the place!), an orange plastic bag hanging from it; not to mention small-caliber garbage like torn-off buttons, pens, condoms, business cards of mysterious origin and who knew what else.

If Squalo was the type to feel remorse, he would have regretted berating Belphegor for living in a room that resembled a garbage can. Being himself, he only swore profusely and cursed Xanxus for keeping him so busy with his shitty requests that he'd had no time to clean up his own bedroom. He made a note to himself to visit the laundry people in their detergent-filled hell on the ground floor as soon as possible – just not immediately. He'd take care of all this crap later in the evening, but right now he wanted an hour to himself. An hour of peace and quiet, far away from his stupid boss and his retarded colleagues. He needed to think. And to drink.

Water still dripping from his hair down on the floor, Squalo crinkled his nose in disgust at the sight of the unmade bed – no way he was climbing into that, no matter how tired he was – and opted for a different route. He padded over to the mantelpiece and grabbed a lonely bottle of wine he'd noticed there earlier on when he had been on his way to the bathroom. It was only half-full, and Squalo couldn't for the life of him remember when he'd first opened it and what had been the occasion, but it should suffice for now. He looked around in case there were clean glasses in the vicinity but couldn't even spot any dirty ones. They were probably all in the office – no better place to get disgustingly drunk, after all. Well, whatever.

Pulling the cork out of the bottle with his teeth, Squalo headed straight for the balcony and kicked the door open, forgetting he had no shoes on and hurting his toes as he did. The night breeze – unfortunately, not as warm as he'd hoped – greeted him like slap in the face and slammed the door shut behind him, making the window glass go _zing!_ plaintively. Propping his elbows on the railing, Squalo spat out the cork and watched it plummet soundlessly toward the dark ground below, where even he, with his sharp eyes, could discern nothing but shadows.

From the balcony, he could see Levi's windows that gave onto the same side as his, down to the left. Curtains were drawn but the room was illuminated from inside with that special flickering kind of light that left no doubts as to what exactly the owner of the room was doing: watching TV; and Squalo would bet his own head it was porn. Levi was famous for his collection of porn DVDs – a fact that he fiercely denied although Belphegor, who had a habit of borrowing from it without asking for permission, agreed that he'd never seen a better selection. There was no reason doubt his words, although Squalo privately believed that it was idiotic to waste time watching someone else have sex, when there were plenty of women to choose from and get some for _real_. The trick was to get away before kittens, let's-move-in-together's and other horrifying symptoms of the disease commonly known as relationship began to manifest. God only knew why women were so damn susceptible to it, but there it was.

The high windows of the kitchen were also dimly lit – Bel must be raiding it in search of apples or bananas, or whatever else it was he liked to munch in the dead of the night. The rest of the building with its galleries and balconies was dark and silent, as if devoid of all life.

Squalo frowned. Speaking of which, where the hell was the patrol? There should be one at all times. Especially during the night times, dammit. They'd better be rounding the building checking out some suspicious crap or something, the motherfuckers, or he'd make them wish their parents had used a condom. Why the hell was it that every friggin' time he went away for a day or two, the shit here fell to pieces in his absence?

Gulping down the wine from the bottle – too little, too late, as usual, but better than nothing – Squalo glared angrily at the scenery below. Why did he have to remember and check and control every damn detail? When he was younger and more romantically deluded – in his own, slightly bloodthirsty way, yes – he'd thought he'd spend his life fighting and, hopefully, winning, not herding idiots. Developing people management skills had never made it into Squalo's Top Three Priorities.

And he definitely had never expected to feel like someone was making an idiot of _him_.

Squalo stared off into space with unseeing eyes. There was this weird tingling sensation he always got when his subconsciousness was struggling valiantly to tell him something important and failing. He took a deep breath and went over everything that'd happened in the last two days.

The ever fucking boss. The stupid mission. Mammon's dusty archive with its shitty door and no key. Too much Belphegor. Rokudo's slut. Rokudo's moron of a pupil (too much Rokudo!). The cake issue. Xanxus accepting Rokudo's little shit without as much as a measly test, not even bothering to at least look at the Mammon's file...

Oh yes. That.

Pausing only to hurl the almost empty bottle over the railing, Squalo darted back into the room and grabbed his jacket from where it lay on top of the mountain of dirty clothes. He dug into the inner pocket and fished out the crumpled page he'd taken from Mammon archive before setting out to hunt down the little fuckface.

He smoothed the paper out and scanned it quickly, looking for the one word that was going to be the proof, and there it was indeed, _Rokudo_, handwritten in black ink, lines as strong and angular and aggressively bold as they had been the last time he saw them. If ever there was a show-off handwriting, that was it.

Only now he knew why it had seemed familiar. In fact, it seemed unbelievable, not to mention unforgivably stupid that he hadn't recognized it right from the start. He should have.

Squalo's face contorted into a grimace of rage so pure it was rendered almost unrecognizable. As he bolted for the door and shot down the corridor, still barefoot, he wished someone would get in his way so he could rehearse what he was going to do to the bastard who'd started this shit and fucking used him as if he were a _tool,_ or a second Levi (and there was no worse insult than that).

But the corridors were empty and the only sound disrupting the silence of the night was that of his own footsteps.

-/-

Wrapping the illusion of invisibility tightly around himself, Fran tiptoed up to a window and tried to force it open, without success – partly because much of the effort went into trying to jump high enough to reach the damn thing. Never before in his entire life had he regretted being short and frail that deeply. Now that he'd seen people like Squalo who could punch through walls in a hysterical fit and never give it a second thought, his own physical flaws seemed to be glaring at him – and, quite possibly, sniggering behind his back too.

He was alone in an abandoned and obviously long-forgotten room on what he hoped like hell was the ground floor. It was hard to tell with that place, since it was all topsy-turvy and confusing, and directions all blended together and played hide-and-seek instead of behaving like they should. The whole building was so old and bursting with history that the logic of modern apartments couldn't possibly be applicable to it. It was like a maze. Still, Fran didn't particularly care where he was, provided that it was indeed the ground floor. He needed to get out, not burrow further in. Out was good, no matter what else it entailed. Of course, there could very well be wild animals in the mountains outside, like maybe wolves and big stray dogs and whatever else Italy had to offer in terms of local fauna, Fran had no idea. He didn't care, either. There were horrible, wild things down (or possibly up) here in the depths of the old place too, and choosing between them and a grizzly bear, Fran would not only pick the bear but also give it a hug. At least the bear would just disembowel him without further ado, unlike these madmen.

He definitely had to get out.

Somewhere in the castle, the freaky four-eyes with the mohawk was probably still looking for him, but Fran hoped the illusionary doppelganger he'd created would last for a while longer, thus giving him time to escape. It must have been Fran's lucky star that had given Squalo the bright idea to appoint the guy as his guard. He had turned out to be quite susceptible to illusions – something Fran had barely dared hope would be the case – and the moment he'd opened the door, caught in the middle of an incomprehensible soup-related monologue of some sort, Fran had cast his spell. He had allowed himself a split-second of triumph as he watched, invisible now, how the Varia idiot ran after the fake Fran, and then sprinted down the corridor.

In the opposite direction.

He had found the stairs, very wide and posh – presumably the main staircase or whatever it was called in places like this – and descended until there was no longer anywhere to descend. It meant that if only he found an open window, the ground and the freedom along with it would not be so far away after all. Hopefully, he could avoid breaking his neck if he jumped out.

Unfortunately, so far the windows were all either barred or simply shut with a finality that required a hammer if he wanted to change the situation. Fran sighed, the memory of Squalo slamming W.W. into the wall with one casual movement floating up to the surface again and filling him with regret. If only he hadn't neglected physical exercise, he'd be able to smash the window or bend the bars. Or both. Or he'd be able to come up to Belphegor and punch the living daylights out of him, and that'd serve him well, the cake-stealing bastard.

Well, that would never really happen, but even he had a right to dream, didn't he?

Fran leaned forward until his forehead touched the uneven stone wall and closed his eyes. This was all completely ridiculous, and twisted and wrong in a million creepy ways. Speaking of dreams, what was going on couldn't be farther from what he'd always imagined his life should be like. He'd wanted – he _still_ wanted – to make something of himself, to be ...well, not popular maybe, but needed, indispensable, so that people would have to actually look at him and see his face, not just pass him by like he was an empty beer can lying on the ground. When Master had manifested himself and shed light on the abilities Fran had always known he had but had never understood, it'd began to look like there was finally some purpose to this whole weirdness called life, something only Fran could do and fulfill. And then Master had dumped him on W.W. and faded away as if he'd never existed and Fran had been left alone again, not knowing what to do.

And then the Varia had come, which was the worst thing to have ever happened to him. He wondered if other people out there had the same problem in the dream department or if it was just him being his usual lucky self. He tried to imagine what someone like Xanxus might dream about, apart from more power, and failed. Fran had only spent about five minutes in the man's company but he could still see those eyes and hear the voice full of malicious disdain. Or Mukuro, for that matter? Well, obviously he'd like to have his freedom back, but after that? Just a lot of revenge? The world just didn't seem to make any sense.

Fran blinked, realizing something was wrong.

The shouting he'd left behind had all died down and an eerie silence had stolen over the place. He could hear the wind howling and whistling down the corridors and hallways, the ominous creaking like a tree branch being broken – but it might be anything here, twisted and multiplied by echoes – and creepy sound putting him in mind of the pattering of small feet (rats? mice? ghosts!?) and they all had an unpleasant invasive quality – once Fran had noticed them, they wouldn't go away. They had crept into his skull and nestled there, and made themselves at home so that the silence of the castle no longer felt even remotely like silence and was now a maddening clamour Fran wished with all his heart he could get rid of.

Of course, he might simply be going mad with fear. Always a possibility.

There was a _bang!_ that sent shivers through stone walls and made Fran's teeth rattle. It went on forever, it seemed, and was followed up by a roar that would make a minotaur cower in shame and terror.

"_What the hell do you mean he escaped, you fucking peacock!?_"

Eyes going wide, all melancholy evaporating in an instant, Fran shot out of the empty room and into the nearest shadowy passage. He ran into darkness as fast as he could, not knowing what lay ahead and not caring.

Squalo had returned.

-/-

Lussuria stared up at the blurry blob of silvery white that he knew was his Commander and tried to think up something nice and pacifying to put Squalo into a slightly better mood and possibly prevent him from stomping down on Lussuria's face to empasize the degree of his displeasure. The task was all the more difficult due to the fact that his glasses had been knocked off and apparently broken when Squalo had first arrived, realized what had happened and immediately proceeded to hit him square in the face to let him know how strongly he felt about the situation. Now, all Lussuria could discern was the wavering shadow framed by the whiteness that could only be Squalo's hair.

Not that it mattered, really. A completely blind man could find Squalo in the middle of a raging storm by his voice. It was, after all, a voice capable of drowning out the sound of a hundred drills. It was education, if nothing else to hear it up close, Lussuria reflected. Even after all these years, he couldn't help marveling at the sheer volume Squalo's vocal cords could produce. It was only when Squalo spoke when Lussuria could really say he understood what it meant to feel something in his _bones_.

He waited for a pause – even Commander Squalo had to stop to draw a deep breath after that much yelling – and squeaked.

"But I have almost caught him, you know! If you hadn't knocked me down – "

"You would have done what? Dance a merry jig with the shitty illusion while the little fuck walked away?"

"What illusion are you talking about, Squ dear? I was this close to – ah. Oh. Really? _Illusion?_" He hadn't been expecting this. How could the boy have been an illusion anyway? Everything about him had been so utterly real.

Disdain rolled off Squalo in a crushing wave, accompanied by a sound that might have resembled an angry hiss except that a hiss wouldn't be enough for Squalo and so he opted for spitting on Lussuria instead.

"Damn faggot! Pathetic doesn't even begin to describe you."

"There really is no need to be like that. Everyone makes a mistake from time to time. That's what being human is all about."

"That's what being an idiot is all about," Squalo replied snidely. "You fuck up once in a serious fight and you're dead meat and your relatives are bringing flowers to you grave. If you have any relatives, that is, which _you_ don't. Hell, right now you don't even have your glasses and already you're fucking useless. If that's Varia quality, I should just retire."

"Oh, but I have all of you," Lussuria pointed out in a cheerful tone more suited to announce lottery winners on TV.

"No," Squalo said firmly, and suddenly there was something flat and resolute in his voice, a certainty that made Lussuria bite back whatever else he was going to add. "No, you don't."

The silvery blob began to move away, which, coupled with the soft sound of footsteps confirmed to Lussuria that the Chief Commander of the Varia had already finished his speech and was now going away – in hot pursuit of the little illusionist, apparently. Well, the boy definitely had to be caught as soon as possible, preferably before the boss got wind of what had happened or there would be retribution.

If only he could find his glasses now...

"Hey, faggot." Squalo's voice, unexpectedly quiet, came from the direction of the side corridor where the insolent little brat had fled. "Just one more thing while we're on the subject. I know you have your little issues and let me tell you, I don't give a damn what they are, nor does anyone else. But that shit only works as long as you play by yourself. Get a grip already, will you? We're not some freaking dysfunctional family or whatever it is you're thinking."

Lussuria froze. He knew that tone and hated it with passion. He also dreaded it almost as much as the boss's occasional insightful monologues. Those also happened once a year but the effect lasted for ages and sent chills down Lussuria's spine when he remembered them.

Squalo didn't often speak to Lussuria, except when he gave orders or discussed plans and other business-related matters, and that he preferred to do in his everyday military fashion, shouting rather than talking. That other voice, almost soft but not quite – this was Squalo after all – was reserved for those rare occasions when the Chief Commander really wanted to get his point across without resorting to bloodshed.

Lussuria licked his lips uncomfortably.

"You have issues too, Commander Squalo."

Squalo scoffed.

"I damn well do. And when they come back to bite me on the ass I won't be expecting any of you lot to sit around and hold my hand while I weep and lament. I deal with my crap and you should deal with yours. _Quietly_. Because it's really fucking annoying and it's beginning to get in the way of job getting done, like today. If you weren't so full of shit you wouldn't've let the brat escape. Get your act together." Squalo fell silent for a moment, then went on matter-of-factly. "I'll let it go this time, but that's it. If I see that it's easier to get rid of you than to fix the mess you make, I won't hesitate to send you packing. And I don't think I need to remind you, dickhead, that the boss will be much less lenient and forgiving, so consider yourself lucky it's only me for now. Got it? I can't hear you."

"Yes," Lussuria said, and for once there was nothing theatrical in his words. "I got it."

"Good," was all Squalo would offer in response, and then he was gone.

* * *

A/N: Ah, Squalo. Isn't he awesome? :) Anyway, I couldn't squeeze the ending into one chapter, so there will be one more.

Please read and review and let me know what you think! =)


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

_(in which the night is young, the dreams are wild, and some people are just naturally better than the other)_

-/-

The night was peaceful and quiet, the dark sky above littered with big, friendly stars. A gentle breeze whispered its secret stories in the leaves of the tall trees, and here and there a bird would begin to trill in admiration.

Lying face down on the cold ground behind a very untidy, very thorny bush, Fran was contemplating the path he had taken, and was quickly coming to the realization that indeed he had been right – he was a special someone in the eyes of the universe. There was no other explanation as to why nothing could ever turn out right for him.

On the other side of the bush, a Varia night patrol was having a quiet moment. Two were smoking, the third one was berating them for smoking the entirely wrong stuff, and all three were wishing they could go hitting on women instead of patrolling the territory. In a couple of minutes Fran learned more about sexual intercourse than he had ever imagined was there to learn, although some things seemed to be anatomically impossible and thus left him puzzled and wondering if he should start practicing yoga for additional flexibility. What if The Lucky Day came and he was unprepared? He wouldn't want that now, would he?

He stored the information away for future reference and tuned back in.

Sadly, the light of wisdom must have left the Varia thugs and they had already switched to a different topic.

"Y'know what, I can't fucking believe they got back so soon," grumbled the small, stocky one shuffling from foot to foot. "And that smoke'll give us away!"

"Screw you, that's some good shit." The second one puffed out more smoke and swayed a bit as if to prove his point.

"If it's good, then you share... and hurry the fuck up, we can't stick around here all night, or Squalo's gonna show up, I'm telling you, the bastard's back."

"And pissed off like ya don't even want to imagine, I heard. What bit him now?"

"Dunno, but heard he went to Paris to get something done and it got all fucked up or whatever..."

"Yeah, but anyway, when was the last time he was happy, eh?"

"Like... when he's fighting and stuff?"

"C'mon, who the hell cares? He's gotta be sleeping like a log then," the third man kicked up an empty beer can from the ground, then stepped on it, producing a high, unpleasant sound. "Even that's not gonna wake him up now."

"Keep it quiet, asshole, or somebody else _will_ wake up!"

"I'll take Squalo over Bel, if you ask me," the second one snickered. "At least Squalo's not psycho."

One could argue that point, Fran thought miserably, feeling the cold seep into his bones. Something moved and then dropped down onto his head from the branches.

The other two thugs seemed to be of like mind.

"Less psycho than Bel, ya mean. But that's like, easy. I mean, all them knives, yeah? Kinda tells you something."

"Yeah, sick, but Squalo's just nuts too, whoever goes 'round loping people's heads off like crazy these days? It's the blood he likes, I'm telling you."

_Or perhaps he's just so used to having idiots like you around, he has forgotten how normal people talk and act_, Fran mused silently as whatever it was that had fallen from the bush and got tangled in his hair tried to fight its way out. He wondered how many legs it had and if it was poisonous.

"Guns are way better," the first speaker concluded in the meantime. "Even – what's the word? - merciful. Cause we're not some bloodthirsty monsters, we're businessmen. That's what the Mafia's all about."

A busy silence fell upon the scene as everyone, including Fran, tried to work that out and decide if it was safe to agree.

"So, like..," said the third man slowly. "_The boss_ is a merciful guy, after all?"

Under the bush, Fran thought of Xanxus's red eyes, of his snarling voice and his angry scars, of the fire that wanted to be unleashed on the world. Merciful was definitely not a tag that one could easily stick on the boss of the Varia, unless, of course, one had to choose between a quick death from a shot to the head and a happy hour alone with Belphegor and his knives.

"The boss," said the second thug with what sounded like a fear of accidentally committing a sacrilege, "is _the boss_. He's just... you know, right? The boss. That's the word."

"Yeah, you can't argue with that."

"Can't go 'round arguing with the boss."

"Cause he'll get, like, real mad and kill you."

"Well, he's the boss, 's only natural."

_A mere couple of days ago I would have never even believed these people could be real_, Fran thought in awe and amazement as he listened to their insightful conversation. Before he was abducted by the Varia it would never have occurred to him that there could be a point in time and space where a great big lump of a man with the brains of a very small bug, brute strength of an adult rhinoceros and no understanding of right and wrong whatsoever would talk about someone as if about a god. And now there were three of them doing it, with a weird reverent note in their voices that hinted at the superstitious belief that a being as omnipotent and omniscient as Xanxus might hear their prattle and materialize out of thin air to organize the Judgement Day a bit ahead of schedule.

It was incredible – they hadn't even called him a bastard, not once. They fully expected him to obliterate them for no good reason and they not only accepted that as natural, but seemed to harbour an unexplicable sort of respect for such atrocious behavior as well. As if Xanxus had long since passed beyond good and evil and common standards didn't even apply to him.

It was simply fascinating. In fact, it might be considered a separate brand of magic – very powerful magic – and one Fran had never suspected could exist.

Or maybe Xanxus was the Ubermensch, after all. In disguise.

Fran realized he was straining to hear the footsteps of the Varia boss and had to quickly remind himself that it would be in his best interests to focus on escaping for now and leave the vague theories and assumptions for another, preferably Varia-free day. When he was out of this hellish place and back in Paris, he would sit down comfortably on a bench near W.W.'s house, maybe with an ice-cream if he got lucky, and allow himself a quiet moment of cogitation. But first he had to get away from this insanity.

Never laying his eyes on Xanxus again would be a nice little extra. Some things were meant to be admired from afar.

From the great hulking shadow of the castle came a sound of doors being thrown open with a bang, of people running and talking excitedly to each other, and – as expected from the assassination Squad commanded by psychos – muffled groans indicating that someone was already in pain.

Fran hoped like hell the sudden outburst of activity was not related to him, but he knew better. Squalo had already found out he had deceived the mohawk freak and escaped the cell, and the swordsman did not look the type to just wave his hand nonchalantly and say _oh well, let him go if he doesn't like it here all that much_. Squalo would want blood, lots of it, and just about now he would be rounding up the goons to comb through the territory. The idiotic hope that the Varia Squad members would not know their own Headquarters very well and might just miss him and his cozy bush by chance did not even dare take shape in Fran's mind. That would be too much to ask of the universe, and luck was very rarely – if ever – on his side.

That meant he could not delay his flight any longer. He had to run now.

Far above, a star winked out of existence.

-/-

"Lazy assholes! Fucking useless morons! If I see any of you miserable idiots standing there and gaping at me like dead shrimps in a salad, I'll damn well make sure you regret the day you were born! I want the little shit found _now_, you hear me? Now!"

"Aren't you an inspiring sight, Captain Squalo. Have you lost your boots? _And_ your shirt."

"Huh? Oh, it's you, brat. Fuck off."

"Happy to see me again, aren't you?"

"Are you dead already, shithead? No? Then try again."

"I see you're still playing hide-and-seek with the frogface." Belphegor's mouth stretched into a lunatic grin. "Just how much energy do you have, Captain Squalo? After all the running I did in Paris I totally had to go and have a nap. It felt really good."

Squalo limited his ever-growing frustration to an impatient sigh and reminded himself that he could not afford to lose time bickering with Belphegor – conversations of that kind could go on for hours, that much he knew from experience, and Fran was still wandering free somewhere out there. Hopefully, still somewhere close enough to be caught again. They needed a new illusionist, whatever his personal opinion about the Mist element might be. Hell, even if the only fucking thing the newbie turned out to be good for was to become Belphegor's new dartboard, Squalo would still vote for keeping him. Maybe then _he_ would be able to get on with his own job and eventually have a rest.

A day off. That was what he needed, and soon. A wonderful day he would use wisely: not on whores, not drinking, not even fighting, because that he could do any time. Well except for whores maybe, they were hard to fit into a busy schedule, but he had been able to manage it alright up till now, so there was no need to change anything. What he really needed was sleep.

What he wouldn't give for a day alone, in a dark, quiet room, with all the alarm clocks and cellphones and the rest of the shit switched off, Squalo thought bitterly.

No, what the hell was he thinking, a fucking _week_ and no less – a whole week away from the brainless dickheads that made up the majority of the Varia. A week away from the intrusive, babbling faggot, from Bel with his annoying laugh and the even more annoying habit of messing up simple tasks because he felt creative all of a sudden, from Levi with his million obsessions – from just about everyone, really.

A week away from his bastard of a boss.

Well, here a lifetime's worth of vacation would not be enough.

Squalo gritted his teeth. Xanxus had _a lot_ to answer for.

"What's up with your face, Captain Squalo? Have you finally decided to resign so I can have your job? We could even give you a decent pension, I guess. You'll pass the rest of your life repairing old bicycles or maybe fishi– fuck, that hurt!"

"Good to know it did, you little shit!" Squalo barked as Belphegor slowly picked himself up from the floor and proceeded to dust off his pants. "Be grateful I didn't hit harder or your empty head would've split open like a fucking melon, not that anyone would miss you, asshole."

"I thought you only had one hand made of metal," Bel noted, touching the back of his head gingerly. "But I admit I was wrong this time – it's too early for you to retire if you can pack a punch like that even with the other one." His crazy grin returned, as if by magic. "Although you were only lucky because I wasn't expecting it. So actually it doesn't count. I was in the middle of a monologue."

"And that's how you're gonna die one of these days, brat," Squalo scoffed with disgust. "Running your filthy mouth and spouting crap until someone creeps up on you and cracks your skull. And when it happens, we'll finally get to see if royal brains are a different color."

A thoughtful look appeared on Bel's face. "A different color?"

"Yes. I expect no less than indigo from you, shithead. You fail, and I promise to make sure it's on your gravestone too. We wouldn't want our descendants, the poor bastards, to think you were an actual prince when really you're just a smartass."

"I_ am_ an actual prince," Bel snapped, and he was no longer amused. There was a sulky tone to his voice. "And whatever color my brains are, I will always be more intelligent than you. Not that it's hard because you are about as primitive as a goldfish."

"And how many Nobel prizes have _you_ won, genius?" Squalo scrunched up his nose derisively as he turned on his heel to walk away leaving Bel behind to complain to the universe about ungrateful peasants if he was so inclined. Obviously, the idiot deserved to have his head chopped off, no difference from the rest of the population, but the Squad still needed his skill. Too bad, really.

But if one day it didn't any more, Squalo said to himself reassuringly, than he personally would bury the little asshole so deep underground that even worms and maggots would have a hard time looking for him.

Oddly enough, the brat hadn't even started to fling his frilly knives around yet. It was not Bel's natural disposition to progress beyond the second insult without referring in one way or another to the world of pain and torture his opponents would soon discover, and usually he was more than happy to advertise it in advance. Maybe he was still feeling sleepy or just too lazy, who could say, but Squalo chose to not contemplate the mystery any longer. The less time he wasted here, the better. He had an illusionist to catch and squash and a boss to confront.

The second part especially was tricky because he was yet to decide how to go about it. The idea of kicking the shit out of Xanxus crossed his mind but was discarded with the deepest of regrets. If things were that simple, Xanxus would not be the boss of the Varia at all. Perhaps one day, Squalo thought, when he felt truly suicidal, he would indeed embark on that journey and go down fighting, hopefully dragging the bastard along as he did, but for now it might be better to remember there was such a thing as self-control.

"I'm going to look forward to the moment you find out you've been played for a fool again, Chief Commander." Belphegor's soft, hissing voice echoed behind his back, and Squalo halted in his tracks.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing I would like to share with you for now. I'm not going to deny myself the pleasure of seeing you discover how much of an idiot you are if you can't even understand the game. No wonder you never made it to the boss of the Varia, you're just to thick."

Very slowly, as if the world had gone frozen and a mere breath could shatter it into million pieces, Squalo rotated on the spot and faced Bel again. Knives were still nowhere to be seen but now the reason had become more than clear.

The little bastard knew. In fact, it appeared that he had been in on the secret for quite some time now. For how long exactly, Squalo wondered. Had Xanxus told him from the start? Because if he had...

If he had, it might just imply that a very disturbing possible scenario was about to unfold.

For example, Xanxus might have decided that Bel would make a better Second-in-Command. Than the whole ordeal would have been orchestrated specifically for the purpose of seeing if he, Squalo, would fail the assignment. Which he would have failed indeed, no matter how he felt about it, because it was next to impossible to find a high-level illusionist in one day with no directions, no hints, no nothing. In that case, Bel must have been there to watch and maybe report. Had the shithead made any calls during their Paris escapade? There was no way to be sure.

No, that didn't make sense. Bel had been the one who found the folder with the info on Fran. He could have kept it to himself or buried it under the already discarded shit, which he hadn't, so at that point he couldn't have possibly known anything. Also the bastard hadn't even wanted to go to the archive in the first place. On the other hand, it'd taken the brat only a couple of minutes to open the damn lock, how fucking suspicious was that? And all his squeaking could have been a show anyway. And then he had become so eager to go to Paris, all of a sudden, despite being a lazy asshole with no sense of duty.

Also, if Xanxus had wanted Squalo to fail and Bel had been aware of the plan, the little shit could sabotage the mission. By _accidentally_ killing Fran in the process, for example.

Except that he hadn't tried that. Or had he? He had thrown those frilly knives at the Mist brat and later on there had been the matter of the plastic bag...

No, Squalo told himself firmly. He had to stick to the logic, the one and only thing that had yet to fail him. Xanxus never told his subordinates more than he absolutely had to, partly because he didn't believe in making life easy for other people and partly because he was so fucking lazy. There hadn't been any reason for him to change tactics. The bastard might be the next incarnation of Machiavelli when it came to plotting and scheming, but he wasn't fond of complicating things when there was a simple solution, and here the simple solution would be to shoot Squalo's head off.

Bel had always been situational, volatile and quick to change his decisions and opinions. He could spend hours looking for something and declare he didn't give a damn the moment he finally found it. The only thing that remained forever the same was his insanity, but that was an entirely different story.

And, more importantly,Xanxus had deemed the mission a success in the end. In his own ungrateful, arrogant manner, sure, but that was the boss, after all. Flowers and rainbows were not to be expected.

Bel must have guessed the truth of Xanxus' involvement himself, perhaps even the same way Squalo had, the only difference being that the brat had seen the light a bit earlier and decided to stick around to gloat a bit.

When?

Fixing Belphegor with a stare, Squalo quickly went through the mental list of everything that had occurred in the last twenty-four hours.

Aha...

A grin spread across his face, so wide and mirthless, that across the corridor Belphegor tilted his head to one side, wiped away the lunatic smile that, in Squalo's personal opinion, did nothing to embellish his features, and slid his hands into the pockets in a seemingly casual movement – to make sure the knives were at the ready, no doubt.

Well, not that it mattered. In the back of his mind, Squalo understood perfectly that he was losing time and that in the meanwhile Fran could already be speeding away from the Headquarters, never to be seen again. He didn't care. There was a limit to everything, including his patience and Belphegor had long since crossed the line. He'd deal with Xanxus later.

"Hey, dickhead," said Squalo in his best Christmas voice as the time and space narrowed down to exclude everything beyond the corridor walls from the immediate reality. "As you can probably see, I didn't bring my sword, but tell you what. Wanna find out if I can still make you bleed all over the floor here? I mean, look at all the fucking dust and shit. I'm in the mood to try and wash it all the hell away. You're about to help."

-/-

Picking leaves and bugs and who knew what else out of his hair, Fran half-crept, half-crawled in the general direction of liberty, equality and fraternity and all the other good things Paris promised to grant its inhabitants. Maybe a new cake could be added to the package to make up for the one eaten by the fake prince with extreme cruelty.

That was one more thing about the Varia that Fran could not understand no matter how much he tried. What did they all mean by calling Belphegor a prince? Was it some sort of an inside joke? It had to be because obviously there was no way the maniac could actually be royalty. Anyone with a lick of sense and a drop of royal blood would use any means available to them to get as far away as possible from the unspeakable horror that was the Varia, and Bel clearly enjoyed himself like crazy here. The crown, though, was a bit of a puzzle. It was real, solid gold, and there was no mistake about it – any self-respecting kleptomaniac, and Fran could proudly label himself one, would be able to tell the difference just by looking. It was gold through and through and cost a fortune big enough to buy a fancy racing yacht.

Fran had seen yachts like that many times because in summer he would usually travel to the French Riviera and, using his invisibility trick to deceive the cameras, hang out on the private beaches of the rich people and steal food. The yachts would bob gently on the waves when no one was around, and when the wind was strong and the owners were in a competitive mood, they would raise the sails and head away from the shore, and the yachts would glide majestically toward the horizon where – on certain days – the sea became indistinguishable from the sky and it made the yachts look almost like they were flying.

There were very few things under the sun that, in Fran's opinion, deserved to be called majestic, and he was always happy for a chance to use the word, it had just the right ring to it. That was why he liked the yachts. They were real and free, like birds.

He had never set foot on one, though.

Belphegor probably owned at least one somewhere. Maybe even more than one. The guy had a crown made of solid gold, after all, it spoke volumes about his social status.

Pausing behind a conveniently thick tree to let a couple of Varia thugs tramp noisily through the nearby bushes cursing Squalo and undoubtedly causing terrible trauma to the local wildlife, Fran leaned against the trunk and fantasized about being filthy rich.

Oh, the things he would buy: more shirts with funny prints (he had always wanted one with a Madagascar penguin – the one that made things go _ka-boom!_), and new sneakers (two pairs! different colors!), and a cool leather jacket like in the hollywood blockbusters, and definitely a borsalino hat, and oh, the things he'd get to eat – in real restaurants too, with waiters! And the look on W.W.'s face when she saw him finally being in charge of his own life and, more importantly, his own budget. For once, a captain of his own ship – of his own yacht, so to speak.

He'd kinda like a yacht too. A real one so he could sail away into the sky.

And the only thing that stood between him and the Dream was a psychopath with a penchant for unnecessary cruelty. A killer too. A killer _for hire, _which was worse because it meant there was no sob story behind his choice of lifestyle. A sadist, really.

Life was so very unfair.

Poking his head from behind the tree with caution, Fran cast a longing glance back at the mansion. Somewhere in there, Belphegor was probably fast asleep, golden crown resting comfortably on a night table or maybe on the floor under the bed, since Bel didn't look the type to care very much about being tidy. Somewhere in there, was perhaps the very thing that might alter Fran's destiny forever.

Fran's eyes glazed over. He liked to read when he had the chance, and although most of the books in his life had been stolen, he still remembered them all fondly, especially those that happened to contain graphic description of people having sex – it was a thrilling subject that no-one ever wanted to discuss with him for some reason. That aside, one thing was crystal clear: whenever the hero was faced with a choice between a strategic retreat to safety and a walk into the dragon den – with the dragon being very definitely in it at the time, of course – going back home would always be a sign of poor taste and would immediately strip the so-called hero of his heroic status and doom him to spend the rest of his life in the company of nothing but beer, tv dramas and an ugly wife that would nevertheless also sleep with the guy next door. If the hero ventured into the heart of danger, though, he'd be sure to get out rich, awesome, with a princess slung over his shoulder and an arrogant, but attractive smirk on his face, and the dragon would have become barbecue by that happy moment.

Fran sighed. With his luck, _he_'d be barbecue in no time at all, and the dragon would be smugly chewing on his bones before it went to sleep again. He surveyed the mansion again, thoughtful and unmoving, calculating possibilities.

Where would the fake prince reside in this great sprawling monster of a building? Right on top, where the windows were the biggest and the balcony was more like a terrace with a fancy balustrade? No, certainly not. If Fran understood anything at all about life, that floor would all belong to Xanxus. Even if he occupied one tenth of it, he would not let anyone else set foot there. He was the boss of a criminal organization, a cold-blooded killer and who knew what else. He'd want to display his power for everyone to see and be in awe of him. He'd want to be on top in all possible senses of the word.

Logically, the fodder would huddle somewhere on the ground level – they had to do shifts patrolling the territory and probably some menial labour as well, because there were always chores and it didn't look like the Varia had an army of maids to keep the place clean, trim rose bushes and cook.

That meant the other bastards would share the middle part of the mansion and how they might have split it between them, heavens only knew. Looking for Bel's room without any understanding of the general layout _and_ while the whole squad was looking for him, searching every inch outside–

Fran blinked. Provided you didn't want to be found, when everyone believed you were outside where did it make the most sense to be instead? The safest place of all would be there.

Behind him, the mountains stood dark and silent against the starry sky.

* * *

A/N: yes, yes, I'm still alive and the story will have another chapter. Hopefully soon, but you know me. :)

Thanks a lot to everyone who reviewed - every time I got feedback I remembered I actually had to finish this thing, and that writing, in fact, is an interesting way to pass some time. Please review if you can spare a moment! It'll make me happy.=)

Ciao!


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